


Upon My Knight

by wordstowords03



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, DC Animated Universe, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics), DCU (Movies), Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Action, Batman Adventures, Bats, Betrayal, Bruce Wayne is a Kinky Bastard, Central City, Confusion, DC comics - Freeform, DC universe - Freeform, Death, Developing Friendships, Drama & Romance, Eventual Character Death, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gotham, Gotham City - Freeform, Illness, Jackass Billionaires, Journalists kick ass, Lex Luthor has his panties in a wad, My First Fanfic, Other, Pregnancy, Romance, Strained Friendships, The Flash - Freeform, The Gotham Gazette, The Joker can't mind his own damn business, The Watchtower, Unplanned Pregnancy, mild violence, the batcave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 65,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstowords03/pseuds/wordstowords03
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire West has a dream--a dream that seems to always hover just beyond her reach. On top of leading a deadend career at the ever famous Gotham Gazette, Claire finds herself caught in the whirlwind of an evolving city, a wasted talent, a trying brother, and under the watchful eye of Gotham's most eligible bachelor and his realm of secrets.<br/>***<br/>Meanwhile, The Batman is restless, heart-broken, and ragged, struggling to pick up the pieces of a broken city and stalk down the man who make a mockery of his life--his being. </p><p>Will revenged be reaped? Will Claire fulfill her dream? Can The Bat finally come close to the happy ending he deserves? Or will the duties of the league, Gotham, and his billionaire tirades obscure the blissful future he deserves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Traces

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first hand attempt at fanfiction. This (eventual) series is made to develop my writing skill and to break that pesky bubble of fantasy that bounces relentlessly about mind.  
> I hope you enjoy, lead me your feedback!  
> :D

The flashing screen had lost all meaning to Bruce. Instead of envisioning opportunities and rescue missions, he saw a bedlam of dead ends and victims—oh, so many victims. They writhed; they screamed; they begged; they plead—plead for him, the Dark Knight, the Caped Crusader, the Winged Justice.

But Bruce could no longer answer their pleas.

Bruce could not even bear the thought of extracting himself from the cavernous clutches of his sacred solitude. It was a fortress, a refuge from the vulgarities of a regressive world. Perhaps, that was the loneliness loaning his decrepit advice. The cave—such a space acted as a gruesome hand, mangled fingers gnawing at his compassion, his humanity.

Yet, Bruce felt free.

_Free._

Bruce chuckled darkly to himself.

He could never be free. Freedom was meant for those with dreams, willpower and promise.

And what promise was left for a cynical, widowed man?

Bruce’s ears caught the distinctive creaking that echoed through the cave. He swiveled in his chair, drew his eyebrows in to his nose.

A tiny red head bobbled toward Bruce, the pigment of his hair standing out wildly against the ebony chambers of the Batcave. In tow of said head was an exasperated Alfred, his suit disheveled, the remnants of his wispy hair sticking out desperately on either side of his head.

Upon seeing Bruce, Alfred straightened, attempted to regain his ever-refined, ever-English manner.

“Master Wayne, my apologies for the intrusion.” The Butler’s eyes drifted to the red headed child by way of explanation.

Bruce smirked.

The child had finally reached Bruce, and stretch his arms by way of greeting, beckoning to the man to hold him. Bruce obliged, hefting the boy snuggly into his arms. The eerie glow of the computer screen emphasized the severity of the blue in the child’s eyes, insinuating their color in the most intimate of fashion. From where Alfred stood, the color was as striking as his Master’s—crystalline. icy. From where Bruce sat, he could detect the traces of evergreen outlying the blue, just like hers.

Just like hers.

Bruce’s light demeanor vanquished instantly, the boy in his lap vying for his attention: pulling his ear, badgering his measly head against the crook of Bruce’s neck.

“Daddy,” he mewled. “I wanna come down here—with you.” He pointed an accusatory finger in Alfred’s direction. “Alf says no.”

Alfred and Bruce exchanged weary glances.

When Bruce didn’t reply, the boy huffed and puffed and narrowed his bewitching eyes.

Bruce shifted his child on his lap and ruffled his rosy locks. How cruel it was to have a son too young to understand; too naïve to hold his father’s secret.

“Parker,” Bruce managed, his voice abysmal, blunt. “You should be in bed.” He cleared his throat, cocking an eyebrow at his ever-so-skeptical son. “Sleeping.”

“I do not like _sleeeeping_ ,” Parker drawled, mocking his father in an indignant tone.

Bruce grinned.

“I, for one, much admire sleeping,” Alfred interjected, smiling stiffly. “I could be indulging in such a task right now, if circumstances permitted.”

Bruce’s eyes shot between his lifelong friend and his stubborn child, taunting the two with his indecision. It couldn’t hurt, could it? Just this once?

“Alright,” he relented, jostling Parker playfully. “Run upstairs and grab a few toys. Change into your pajamas.” Parker’s mouth gaped in disbelief, his round eyes bulging enormously in their sockets. When Parker didn’t move, Bruce tickled his sides, causing the poor child to burst into a treacherous fit of giggles, echoing off the caverns of the looming cave.

“Go.” Bruce plopped the boy on his feet.

Although still distracted by his laughter, the child bounded off, exiting through the way he came.

“If I do say so myself, Master Bruce, I believe you just made that boy’s night.” The Butler chuckled, eyeing the boy’s father with concern.

Bruce had that look again. That helpless, remorseful plea that pried apart the tender folds of Alfred’s resolve. To watch his Bruce— _his son_ —struggle after such prolonged suffering, it nearly crippled him. To this day he envisioned the 8 year-old heir, his pudgy fingers constricting around his bed sheets, uncontrollable tears gnawing down his face.

Bruce knew such a look, and turned away under the scrutiny of his Butler.

“Probably,” Bruce rubbed at his temples. “He is an infuriating three year old.”

Alfred chuckled, more to himself than Bruce. “Not unlike his father at his age.”

 Bruce grumbled back a reply and waved a dismissive hand at him.

“Do you require anything else of me before I retire? Some blankets and pillows for the little Master Wayne?”

“Nothing for me.” Bruce replied distantly, seemingly forgetting the later part of Alfred’s question before correcting himself. “Pillows—yes. He’ll be tired.”

 

 

“Very well.” And with that, Alfred retreated.

Parker returned moments later, toting a wagon that he had somehow maneuvered down 2 flights of stairs, filled to the brim with trinkets. Stuffed Dinosaurs spewed from the sides, tiny, stuffed limbs jostling as the wagon trudged along. Parker stopped minutely and turned over his wagon, smiling victoriously at the mess he had so easily conjured.

Bruce smiled absently. He should admonish the child, chastise his hands. He was young, careless; he should be more cautious. Yet, was that what _she_ wanted?

Bruce watch as his son feasted on his toys, maneuvering them in grand gestures.

 _Let him break things,_ Bruce thought. _There’s always better things, newer things to occupy his interest. Anything, for him._

Alfred returned to settle Parker under a cozy blanket and deposit some snacks before retiring for the evening. Bruce browsed his screen and continued to filter through the cries and pleas, doing his best to keep his young son ignorant to the requests that roused across the computer time and time again. He sent cases to the Justice League, knowing that J’onn would no doubt be reeling at the sheer bulk of atrocities to attend to.

The Batman had taken a step back from his League duties this past year and a half, indulging detective work and the inner workings of Wayne Enterprises. Dick and Damian handled the calls in Gotham; the League patrolled the skies.

There were so Leaguers now that Bruce hardly saw the need for his trivial submissions. The world had more resilient men and women, now. Those who could fly, and vaporize, and lift, and manipulate—they did not need the meager contributions of a mortal.

Hours passed, and Parker found him prey to the alluring promise of slumber. Somewhere along the way he’d managed to maneuver his way into his father’s lap, his measly head propped against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce kissed his son’s temple, his eyes fluttering closed.

_My little Crusader._

At the sound of buzzing Bruce’s eyes jolted open, seeking out the monitor before him. His lips curled down in disdain.

On his main screen was a video request from Kent—Superman, his closest friend. Clark pursued Bruce relentlessly, pestering the Knight for months and begging the Crusader to cease his incessant moping to pour his soul into the legacy he helped devise.

“We need your help,” Clark plead on his doorstep. “What would she think if she could she you now? All those years for what, this? You need a distraction.”

Bruce dismissed the notion easily as he did the video request.

Finished for the evening, Bruce stood. He smiled down to the slumbering fiend in his arms, and caressed the back of his little, red head.

Without a second glance, he exited the cave and ascended the stairs to the mansion.

Bruce shuffled into his chambers and made quick work of tucking Parker into the crisp, silk sheets. He grabbed the toy dinosaur that perched on the end of his night stand. Battered and worn, Bruce tucked the three-horned creature under his son’s chin.

Bruce observed the child a moment, ran his fingers through the child’s wispy, red hair. Even in slumber, Parker could not refute the prominent features of his mother: the curvature of his eyes, the vibrant tenor of his hair, the challenges he launched against his father, and the fondness for old, battered things.

Slowly, he slid in next into bed beside his son, taking care to ease the covers over them both. He propped the pillows, and folded his long, supple arms behind his head and allowed his fingers to ease through his short, ebony locks.

Maybe tonight he could finally sleep.

Maybe tonight he would finally ignore the ceaseless rioting of his thoughts.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and smiled at the momentary relief. All too quickly, however, the past flashed behind his eyelids.

Bruce opened his eyes and observed the moon as it lit his bedroom, filling the empty chambers with life.

He grabbed a remote and watched as the curtains drifted closed, blocking out the world.

_Not tonight._


	2. Yo, Bats!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter to captivate your interests.  
> One of my favorite chapters I've written so far.  
> This story WILL pick up. The first few chapters are establishing, plot setting chapters.

The next day followed as all the rest. Batman woke, tended to Parker, and made his rounds through Gotham. Today it was his generous contributions to the police station; tomorrow a visit to the boys’ home. The next day? Well, he’d have to consult his PR guy, but no doubt it would be another flaunt of his wealth and the spell Bruce Wayne bewitched over Gotham—his home, his wreckage, his love.

He returned home that evening and locked himself in the Batcave, preparing a case for Gordon. He messaged J’onn with details on investigations, crimes.

When the same creaking that struck the cave the evening prior echoed through his chambers, Bruce smirked. He turned in his chair to greet his troublesome cherub, only to pause.

Wally West strode in the Batcave, whistling obnoxiously, his eyes devouring Bruce’s dwelling.

So this is what Clark stooped to.

The Flash.

“How did you get in here?” Bruce bellowed unwelcomingly, resisting the urge to twitch.

“Oh, c’mon Bats, is that any way to greet an old friend?” Wally gestured broadly, grinning in his Flash-esk way. “Are you saying you haven’t missed me?”

Bruce inwardly groaned.

“Not even a little bit?” Wally pinched his fingers, squeezed his eyes.

“Get out.” Bruce swiveled back to his screen.

Wally sped to his side in a blur and lounged across the keys of Bruce’s computer.

“Aw, just give me a second, okay? I just wanted to see you. None of us have heard from you in months.”

“I sent emails.”

Wally snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like anyone reads anymore—we haven’t _seen_ you in forever. I started to wonder if you were dead or alive, so I figured I’d come and check up on you.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Bruce retorted, sardonically.

“I figured if you were dead your body would smell up the cave or something, so I’d be able to find you soon enough. Speaking of smells, you should’ve caught a whiff of what Hawkgirl cooked up the other day! WOOWEE! Thanagarians have it rough! Poor, GL. He’ll never have a good meal all his life, unless he orders takeout—"

“Get to the point.” Bruce interrupted, unamused by Wally’s stories. He’d heard enough of them in his lifetime.

“Oh, I’m picking up Parker for the weekend. Figured I’d show him the lab again and take him to a movie or somethin’, ya know? He loves that sort of stuff. I rented Jurassic Park,” He grinned. But quickly morphed his expression to match that of Bruce’s stoic, unamused one. “Unless you think that’s too scary.”

Bruce merely stared at the hero, unblinking.

“Look, if you’re worried about nightmares, I’ve got it handled, alright?” He crossed his arms. “Can’t have him shaming the West name, after all.”

“Right.”

The two engaged in a mile’s worth of silence. With each moment that passed Bruce found himself more anxious, and annoyed, at the words the Flash had stored up his sleeves.

Not unnoticed, Wally’s former enthuse melted to sorrow, his eyes downcast.

 “You know, she wouldn’t want this,” Wally said.

Bruce refused to meet his eyes.

“Ignore me all you want, Bats, but you and I both know that if she knew about all the brooding and moping and whining you do, she would commit some evil, Claire-like punishment. Or, a silent treatment,” Wally shivered. “Those were the _worse_.

Bruce sighed. Like he needed a reminder?

“Bats, please—come back to the league—get up—do something! At least visit us for a day, a few hours. Hell, I don’t even have to be there! I’ll take Parker and you can catch up with Supes, GL, Dianna—you owe it to them.  You know, without you, none of this would have happened. 7 years ago, without you, there would be no Justice League—it would be the ‘Just Us’ League—as in, a whole bunch of losers in spandex who can’t organize themselves to do anything because they’re all too worried about worrying about themselves,” Wally shrugged at the Bruce’s raised eyebrow. “I was never one for organization—you know me. Supes is, well, Supes—all brawn and too worried about the boy scount mantra to cross boundaries. J’onn is too awkward. Wonder Woman is too independent—too pushy. GL, eh. And Hawkgirl…” he laughed nervously, recalling the day her race embarked upon planet Earth after her long term spying—which Batman had long forgave, voting for her immediate admittance back into the League. “You get the picture. Truth is, we are all selfish. We still are. You held us together, brought us together. That’s not just something you can forget.”

Bruce merely sat in his stoic, brooding way. He eyed Wally skeptically, dousing his kindness in the inchor of his depravity.

Wally, as though expecting such a reaction, hopped up from the keyboard he was perched on and laughed childishly at the assorted symbols and letters that his buttocks left of the screen.

“Anyways,” Wally turned to walk from the room, waving his hand in a careless farewell. “Parks and I are going to ditch this Popsicle stand—don’t wait up!”

Just as Wally reached the door to exit, he halted. The red head arched his head low, as though scolded, and let out a breathy sigh before glancing over his shoulder.

“I miss her every day, too, Bruce,” Wally’s shoulders buckled forward. “More than you know.”

 

Bruce’s eyes widened.

Wally collected himself, sighed.

“Wally?” Bruce called. “She… She would be proud of you.

With that, Wally abandoned Bruce to his solitude, but not before tossing an appreciative smile over his shoulder.

Perhaps, his brother-in-law hadn’t written him off just yet.

***

Leaden with the dread of Parker’s absence, Bruce gathered his black leather jacket and shoveled his arms through the sleeves, relishing in the fabric’s cool caress against his neck and wrists.

Summoning to the garage, Bruce stole away in his Red Lamborghini and whisked into the heart of Gotham.

He grimaced as the night flashed around him—his love for the Batmobile just couldn’t be contended with.

His drive through Gotham irked him; irked him that he was not out doing his duty, his job, his calling.

But, that was his fault, wasn't it? He decided to retire from the streets, from his calling. On a rooftop, Bruce swore he saw the flash of an omniscient figure—Dick, perhaps?

Bruce pulled into the Gotham City Hospital. Despite his obvious contempt for the institution, he funded it. The wretched hell saved lives, after all—just not the one that mattered so dearly to him.

He gritted his teeth and entered the building, trudging through the ER door and raking his way through the walls until he approached a sterile, white door. Bruce produced a keycard from his pocket, lifted it to the scanner and touched his forefinger to a keypad. The door opened with a metallic groan, just far enough to allow his body to squeeze through.

One door lead to another until finally, he met the one that beckoned to him He ran his fingers tentatively over the doorknob before repeating the same tedious process he performed at the other door.

Bruce steadied his whimpering heart.

The room was as other hospital rooms: devoid of life, sterile, white, full of incessant beeps and clicks, littered with assorted monitors and screens. Bruce drew upon his strength to lull him to the cot in the center of the room.

The blankets were changed, he noted with a hint of relief. Instead of that God awful mint green and stiff white; they were a rosy pink. Beneath the sheets lay a curvaceous body, a dormant volcano in heady demand of Bruce’s ministrations—ministrations he was all too eager to administer.

 

The woman had a sweet face littered with freckles and blemishes from childhood. Not so dissimilar to her brother, was her prominent chin and fleshy cheeks. Bruce dusted a hand along her wire-bound arm and clasped her chin, waving his thumb over the soft skin absentmindedly.

His fingers traced her lips. Not exceptionally full lips, but luscious in their own way. Though cracked and blistered, Bruce could still imagine the sultry, soft tenderness of her lips against her skin. The memory lingered on his skin like a ghost.

Her hair—a wild, divine tangle of deep, vibrant red—flayed about the pillow. He allowed his fingers to trill over the flame-like fibers. He inhaled through his nose. Normally, she would summon to him that smell of the perfume she wore—some Ralph Laure concoction she once rallied all her pennies for. Instead, she smelt of metal. So unfamiliar, so foreign.

At the woman’s collarbone was a deeply embedded gash—fresh blood bubbled at the surface, laced with an erotic green poison. In his hands Bruce can picture the weapon, laced in such poison—replayed the scene of the Joker—his hands, his maniacal laughter.

Bruce clenched his fists. That clown, that monstrosity—he caused this.

The Joker was always troublesome. A flea among criminals. Sure, homicidal—but considerably less menacing than the likes of Luxor and Braniac. His schemes were foiled time and time again, useless. The League could eliminate him easily.

Until, they could. Two years ago, everything changed. The threat of the Joker became overwhelming, vivid. A deranged clown he was no longer; for, this clown discovered the way to Batman’s heart.

This poison—this _death_ —was his fault. If only he could get the Joker to talk—to squeal. His agony would end. She… She could return, and all would be well again. He swore, oh, did Bruce swear, he would seek vengeance.

For the Joker’s time in Arkham after his capture, the Joker remained resilient. Time and time again, the clown was investigated. He’d meet each client with a shrill, mocking laugh and showcased his stained, mangled teeth.

_“What will you do now, Batsy?” He sneered. “He knows, we all know—this is your end! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha!”_

_He knows._

Yet, who exactly was _he_?

Investigations proved dry, and the evidence was the fraying woman before him. There was no expiration date—no end to his wife’s suffering. Each day, she destabilizing and her wound swelled. Every expert was summoned—each scientist, doctor and physicist. In the midst of investigating the Joker’s ambiguous ‘he’, no doctor could summon an answer; no even those of mystic practices.

There was no cure. She would waste to dust.

He couldn’t bear the thought.

He needed to murder the Joker—to wrangle him, wrought him. He craved _vengeance_. He hadn’t devoured such a forbidden taste in years, not since his parents’ death. Batman could not reach the Joker, not anymore. He was locked out after nearly murdering him in his own investigations.

Bruce could still feel the wretch’s pulse beneath his palm—throbbing, burning.

_I need relief._

Bruce paced the sterile confinement uneasily, driven mercilessly by his thoughts.

A solution—a solution, but what? He couldn’t reach the Joker, he was powerless—powerless.

“Please,” Bruce sought his wife’s hand, wrangled his hands around hers. “Tell me—tell me what to do. I need you to challenge me.”

And even in her slumber, Bruce could touch the fervor of her eyerolls, the admonishing glint behind her glare.

Staring at her, moisture clinging to the rims of his fear-wrought face, he knew what he must do.

In moments Bruce marched to his car, revving the engine and producing his cell phone.

“Alfred,” he boomed into the mouthpiece.

“Yes, Master Wayne?”

“Prep a plane for Metropolis.” Alfred’s astonishment echoed through the line, his silence spurring a dark amusement in Bruce.

“Right away, sir.”

Bruce snapped the electronic device shut and constricted his hands around the steering wheel.

It was going to be a long night.

 

 


	3. Introductions

She was bored.

Unbearably bored.

Perhaps, there were better adjectives—more vivid sentiments to describe this affair—but none of them would do her any justice.

She’d been pushed into this—this bore. No, the notable reporters were celebrating Gotham’s anniversary in the hearth of city, relishing in the annual festivities. There was an extravagant parade, a bottomless amount of parties and thumping clubs—an ideal dwelling for mischief and mayhem.

And, of course, Monday morning headlines.

While her peers were left to dig up dirt on a ravaging, writhing city, Claire was saddled with a dull Gala riddled with lavishly wealthy patrons and Gotham’s most elite socialites.

“Claire, all of the wealthy are convened in one place—Bruce Wayne’s place, no less,” Her boss cooed, waving her hand sarcastically. “Billionaire playboy? Gotham’s most devilish Prince?” Her boss reached behind her desk and tossed Claire her phone, a grim smile lilting her lips. “Grab your shovel, West.”

Claire clasped the phone in her hand, and tapped a champagne flute against her elbow incessantly.

 _Shovel?_ Claire glanced around the room, inched her lips upward in disdain. _There would have to be some dirt to dig in first._

This was her own fault—getting saddled with this. She was an idealist, too eager to write stories and abandoned her dull desk job.

She was a joke—a kid.

Yeah—a kid who wasted years of her life accumulating degrees with the gusto that rivaled the equivalent of any Harvard scholar. Flawless grades, _flawless—_ certainly better than that of her jovial brother. Yet, his job as a low level scientist paid more. Go figure.

She’d pleaded—no groveled—her way into the Gotham Gazette, the ever feisty Danielle Cook taking mercy on her exasperated soul. She wouldn’t be a columnist—not yet. But, soon, Cook assured.

That was three years ago.

Danielle nourished Claire’s talent on the back burner. Swearing upon the day that Gotham would be ready for Claire’s flair, her tactful words.

Alas, until the delicate sensibilities of Gotham’s citizens subsided, Claire was merely a joke—a paper pusher, headline shuffler, the fool who cut articles when they blotted out the cover story.

A joke.

All she needed now was a punchline.

An abrupt shout resonated through the grand ballroom of Wayne Manor, the angry bellow bouncing off the gold crown molding. Claire sought out the guise of a drunken man, who jabbed an accusatory finger at an enraged Commissioner Gordon. The Commissioner’s nostrils were flared, his greying brows pulled so tightly together they cast shadows of his eyes.

Claire deposited her flute on the pillar and scampered desperately across the foyer.

The situation escalated. Security members wedged in between the arguing parties, attempting to pry the drunken man from the room. Claire bit her lips and hastened her pace, grappling the phone in her hand to record the crisis.

Just as she’d set the device to begin recording, a stranger barreled into her. His glass of deep, red wine spewed against her chest, the rich liquid tainting the white exterior of her expensive pantsuit.

Claire gaped down at the carnage of her outfit. That costed her three months of salary—three excruciatingly painful months of suffering, and barely scrounging up enough funds to meet her bills and utilities.

In her horror, her phone slipped from her hand and toppled to the polished tile floor, the screen shattering into thousands of glistening fragments. The innards scattered about the floor; lost, devastated.

 _Oh, God_. Claire fell to her knees, desperately collecting the glass shards between her fingers, ignoring the pricks it left against her fragile skin. _I didn’t buy that insurance plan! Damn it, Wally was right!_ She choked a little, incredulity racking through her body.

“I’m screwed,” she murmured aloud, her voice crackling. “So screwed.”

“I’m sorry,” a rich, masculine voice bellowed down to where Claire all but writhed in angst. “Here, let me help you.”

A sturdy hand swooped down to clasp her elbow and haul her off her knees. She recoiled, loathing the touch of a stranger—a stranger that had cost her every bit a year of financial ruination.

Claire glimpsed the security detail that hauled the drunken man from the ballroom. The Commissioner huffed over to the bar and demanded a beverage, no doubt planning on drinking down whatever ill-repute the drunken man had spewed. Within moments, a woman with shoulder length raven shaded hair simpered from the outskirts of the ballroom, her elegant magenta dress trailing behind her. Behind her trailed a carrot-topped photographer, eagerly sifting through his photographs.

_Fucking Lois!_

Claire rowed her eyes and whirled on the stranger afore her, preparing to bombard him with a string of vile, menacing curses. Instead of subtly meeting the eyes of the stranger, she found herself a victim to his broad, muscular chest straddled by a crisp, white collared shirt. The fine fabric was pulled taut over the mass of muscle, causing Claire to delay her torment and admire the divine slab of man before her.

“You must be a bit more shaken than I thought,” the chest rumbled.

Claire blinked and sought the chest’s face. She was swathed in light, crystalline blue eyes. They were beguiling, mesmerizing—and fixed with a bemused glint. She drew her gaze to his lips—full, beautiful, luscious lips—curved up to the one side. His jaw was expansive, his chin chiseled, and his cheekbones broad, his skin pulled as taut as canvas. His hair—thick, shortly cropped, tangle of ebony.

_Beautiful._

Acknowledging her inappropriate gawking, Claire shook herself and cleared her throat, determined to gain her bearings.

“No, I’m fine,” She whined and nearly cringed at the sound. She sounded no better than a toy deprived child. How much more embarrassment could she withstand for one evening?

She squared her shoulders and tried again, confident.

“No, really, it’s about time I headed home anyway. Thanks for the subtle persuasion.” She made to turn but was foiled by the vise-like grip the handsome man applied to her elbow.

“Right.” He grumbled, lips quirking up into a ridiculing smile. “You’re not going anywhere.”

 “Charming.” Claire snapped y, slapping back a few strands of hair that swam before her vision. “But I’m afraid I must be getting home—cats to feed, sleep to indulge in, the works. Trust me, you’ve done me a favor.”

 The handsome man’s hypnotizing eyes glinted with something—something that Claire couldn’t place. Amusement? No, she was convinced in the two seconds she’d spent with him that amusement wasn’t an uncommon emotion in his day to day activities—the sentiment oozed off of him in waves. Was it fascination? Awe?

 “Nonsense, I sabotaged your evening.  Allow me to provide some means as to fix it.” His tone—that cautiousness, that forced politeness. She used that tone, hell she _owned_ that tone. He was anticipating her reaction, that’s what the bastard was doing.

“Fix?” She snapped. “Fix what? I think you’ve fixed quite enough!”

Claire snatched her elbow back and cradled it protectively in her hand. The skin was punctured with a chill at her withdraw.

She grimaced.

Her elbow certainly wasn’t cold before. In fact, in the stranger’s strong grasp it was warm and tingled with unkindled delight. That warmness returned tenfold as the stranger entrapped her elbowing once more, hauling her through the hearth of the dance floor. He dodged the jiving bodies with ease, as Claire stumbled and stuttered.

He lead her from the ballroom, and into a hall. Claire admired the spectacular collect of art as they shuffled past, gawking at the intricate collections.

The stranger navigated the halls with a flourished. She cocked an eyebrow, dubious of this man’s acknowledge of Wayne Manor.

Perhaps this man was a friend of Wayne’s, she reasoned. Claire peeked up at the stranger thoughtfully, tracing the planes of his face. He was certainly handsome enough to be in cahoots with a billionaire playboy.

As though aware of her inquiries, the stranger swiveled his head and pfftered her a sultry smile, white teeth flashing out between exquisite lips.

Claire huffed, and redirected her focus to the paintings.

The stranger chuckled.

The man took an abrupt left and lead Claire into a drawing room littered with sleek, modern couches and softly glowing golden lamps.

 “Sit here,” He deposited Claire on one of the couches.

“I’d rather not.”          

“Suit yourself.” The man sauntered off to the closet door, easing it open sluggishly and producing a long, velvet evergreen petticoat. He held out the article of clothing to her generously. “Take this, it should mask the stain.”

Claire eyed the petticoat warily. That coat wasn’t cheap. She spied the designer label and gaped.

“It’s a gift,” he added, a smirk painting his lips.

“So, let me get this straight,” Claire said, her voice trembling with skepticism. “You’re offering me a designer coat—from a stranger’s closet, in a stranger’s house, without his permission.”

The man laughed— a deep, genuine belly laugh. It echoed off the walls and flew into her ears, a seed that nestled in the hallows of his mind. Taking root, Claire fought the urge to smile at the buttery sound.

“And if I have his permission?” He mused, settling the coat on his arm.

Claire scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure he approves—did you clear this with him sometime in the interim of spilling the drink down my shirt and dragging me into some abandoned room?” She pointed a finger in his direction. “Classy, by the way.”

The stranger’s grin widened.

How was it that he found her so damn amusing? Claire narrowed her eyes.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Mr…” She untucked her hand and motioned for him to supply a name.

“Wayne. Bruce Wayne.”

“Well, that’s a stupid — what?”

Claire’s stomach dropped to the floor, her face contorting into a guise of horror.

 “But please, forget the formalities, call me Bruce.”

“I—Mr. Wayne—I—“

“Bruce.” He corrected.

Bruce Wayne offered Claire the petticoat, seizing her eyes in challenge.

“Please, take the gift—it’s the least I can do,” His eyes shuffled down to her wine stained chest and loitered on her breasts. His breath caught. “I insist.”

Rolling her eyes, Claire reached for the petticoat, ignoring the dull satisfaction that bloomed as his fingers grazed hers. He withdrew his hand, and stowed it within the confinement of his pants pocket.

Claire eased into the jacket. She sighed as the divine fabric settled between her shoulder blades, the smooth and silky material soothing against the nape of her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open seconds later.

Bruce Wayne’s crystalline ovals traced the contours of her cheeks, her lips, her jaw.

Claire blushed under his scrutiny.

Her face was round, pumpkin-like, lacking the definition most women craved; the definition female reporters on television boasted, and models. Her cheeks withheld the fat from her childhood, despite her apt weight. With time, the doctors had assured, they would thin out— she was still waiting on “time”.

Her hair—a vibrant, searing red—came just to her shoulders, thick and wavy, although in that moment tamed with a straightener. The color complemented her eyes, sharp as razors with their tactile emerald coloring.

Claire was no model; no headliner; no woman that a playboy billionaire would waste his time with.

Yet, she swore she detected a trace of listless longing in the playboy’s eyes before he tore away his gaze. He reached out to Claire’s figure, and pulled together petticoat to button it—diligently, calculatingly.

His hands traveled up to the neckline of the petticoat and flattened the creased flaps. Claire couldn’t help but notice the way his fingertips lingered too long, the manner in which they grazed her collar bone and ruffled her blouse. By the time Bruce eradicated himself, Claire’s thoughts were laced with unfamiliar thoughts, foreign desires.

Claire cleared her throat and shook her head. “I don’t when I’ll be able to repay you.” She foresaw his argument and summoned a silencing hand. “No, I don’t give a damn about how many billions you possess—I’m paying you back.”

“Forget it. I was the one that ruined your suit, and your phone,” He said. “Forget it.”

 “Who gave you permission to decide if I’m paying you back or not? Gotham may be a crime ridden destitute, but it’s still a free country. I’ll do what I want.”

“Good—then you’ll want what’s in your best interest. You can’t pay me back, so you won’t. Even if you could, I still I wouldn’t accept it. Case closed.”

Claire darted forward, arms crossed and eyes ablaze.

“Who gives you the right to close my case? I say it’s open.” She insisted, leaning forward on the balls of her feet.

“And I say it’s closed.” He replied, delight dancing in the deep overtones of his voice.

Claire continued to argue, and Bruce barked out a laugh.

“You aren’t going to give up, are you?”

Claire fixated him with a skeptical glare.

“I don’t compromise,” Bruce said, all humor dissipating form his tone. “Or give up. When my will is set, it is all but impossible to deter. Whether it be for anything…” He leaned forward provocatively, extracting one of his hands from his pocket to besiege her waist. Bruce’s lips met the tender flesh of her ear. “Or anyone.”

Claire sucked in a shaky breath and all but ran into the wall as she made for the exit.

“With such a prowess, it must be difficult to function around us normal folk.” She called over her shoulder. “But even the most determined of creatures can be deterred,” she mimicked his dramatic flair, adding in an ominous whisper: “Or eliminated.”

She trotted down the hall, and paused. She grinned and at a speed she though capable of only the Flash, she unbuttoned her petticoat and positioned it over the shoulders of a looming, porcelain Greek statue.

Dignity intact, Claire left Wayne Manor.

_Pompous bastard._


	4. Left in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nature of the work switches between Claire West and Bruce Wayne. Claire is always past tense; she oversees her own story and intertwines with Bruce's. This chapter takes place at the beginning of the second season of Justice League. 
> 
> Bruce is in the present, and shows the beginning of the first season of Justice League Unlimited. In Chapter 3, it was kind of following the bridging story arc between Justice League: Doom and Justice Unlimited. Thus, explains his hiatus from active League duty. 
> 
> Just a helpful note from your neighborhood BatGeek!  
> Enjoy!

“Wally, look—Wally, will you just shut up for two seconds?!”

It’d been a little over a week since Gotham’s Anniversary bash at Wayne Manor. The city was silent, at ease, once again. Well, at least as “at ease” as Gotham could ever be. What, with hundreds of criminals, vindictive crime lords, and a 6’3 Bat cavorting through the streets, Gotham city was a far cry from normalcy.

Yet, that Bat—darkness’s spawn—had spared the city another year murders, shrill cries, fear. The Batman was a symbol, a savior, a hero.

The same hero that dominated the letterhead of nearly every issue of the Gotham Gazette—and Claire would know, she discarded article after article in order to accommodate the mysterious Caped Crusader’s nightly antics.

In his gallantry, however, he received only headlines—no sum of money or Nobel Prize, no doctrine of appreciation. He was expected to perform, to sweep a damsel off her feet and rid the city of another villain.

Until he wouldn’t.

His legacy would whittle away, and succumb to the dark novice of Gotham; no matter how grave his sacrifice.

He was a joke, a punchline.

And that was a burden they both shared.

After the Anniversary party, Claire was torn a new hide. How could she let Lois capture a headline in Gotham? Claire’s bread and butter? Danielle shrilled at Claire by the wall of her cubicle, thrusting Metropolis headlines in her face. Claire was shamed, ridiculed and humiliated.

And now, despite it all, she had to endure the insufferable nagging from her brother. Why hadn’t she called him? Answered his text messages?

She glowered down at her desk.

 “I just don’t get why you can’t shoot a bro a text from time to time,” Wally whined. “Let him know you’re breathing or something.”

Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “Wally, it’s never acceptable to talk in third person. Honestly, what’s wrong with you?”

“Hey—I was worried! Am I not allowed to be a big brother?”

“Wally, you’re 3 years younger than me.”

“Yeah, and until you have an older brother, I’m your older brother by 3 years… in the past.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Yeah, to you! I wouldn’t expect you to understand—it’s a superhero thing.”

 

 “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be doing something productive?” Claire rubbed a finger up and down her collarbone, eyes drawn to the ceiling. “You know—saving someone from a collapsing building, screwing up a timeline…”

“If you know so much about being a superhero, why don’t I have the League just call you the next time an alien race is trying to invade?” Wally laughed. “Besides, I’m at lunch.”

“Lunch break? How can you afford to set aside such valuable moments in your day?”

“What can I say? I’m the fastest man ali—“

 Another voice echoed from the opposite end of the line: a deep rumbling, gruff and scratchy: “Is that a girl?”  Wally rushes to explain but a female voice chuckles, joining the gruff one: “What, did the fastest man alive finally land a date?”

Claire snorted, her cubicle flooding with the sound of laughter.

“This never happened.” The line died, leaving Claire to the stifling solidarity of her cubicle.

Oh, how Claire adored her brother—his corny witticisms and susceptibility to teasing only strengthened her admiration. The Flash he may be, but Claire still saw him as a young rascal, cuddled up beside her on the couch Saturday mornings, clutching an action figure in his hand.

Claire set to devouring her work, revising the front page of the morning edition of the Gazette. Inevitably, each headline and column would find itself warped and changed.

When Claire finally looked up from her work, she was ready to submit the paper. She grumbled as the bright lights of the office flickered on, the sound of heels scampering through the vacant office.

 “I think you’ll find The Gotham Gazette a successful investment, Mr. Wayne,” Danielle’s high pitched voice struck Claire’s ears.

Claire paled.

The walls in Claire’s cubicle seemed to shrivel, the air becoming heady with invisible lead, weighing on her lungs.

“Your reporters produce commendable work.” The billionaire conceded. “The question is: Can they concoct originality? Redefine quality? I’ll be frank Ms. Cook—I’m branching out to reap profit, and reach global networks. I want journalists who are going to write more than just headlines; I want journalists who are going to put Gotham on the map.”

Danielle was quiet—too quiet. Claire peeked her head around the scratchy wall of her cubicle.

Bruce Wayne stood with his back to Claire, his smugness evident in the deliberate ease of his broad shoulders.

Claire grappled her proverbial popcorn, and eagerly shuffled pieces into her mouth.

Danielle’s mouth bobbled uncertainly, presumably fighting the urge to scream. Her fists were clenched, olive eyes blazing.

 “You doubt the competency of my reporters?”

“Not in the slightest,” Bruce Wayne shrugged. “I’m simply questioning their… longevity. There are  other presses in this city—presses exemplifying new things, making bold statements. The tide is changing in Gotham— a tide I’m willing to ride—in exchange for certain luxuries, of course.”

 Danielle narrowed her eyes.

Claire knew that gaze—that raw ire.

Bruce Wayne shrugged indifferently, divine shoulder muscles tensing before he rotated to peer out the expansive window depicting a silent city, blanketed in the night. He touched a finger to the glass, and let out a low whistle.

 “Dust,” he acknowledges, examining the grime with grim amusement.. “Do you know what dust connotes, Ms. Cook? Age. Neglect. It seems your office is in need of cleansing.”

Claire chortled from her hiding spot.

Her boss’s eyes flicked nervously about the office floor, searching for lurking eyes of the staff within the sea of cubicles. Her cheeks flushed as they landed on the chuckling redhead.

“You want bold statements.” Danielle’s eyes remained steely on Claire’s. “The Gotham Gazette _is_ a bold statement. This press has functioned for years, no — decades. We represent the heart of Gotham—who is it, who it always has been. When Gotham is ready for change, we will adapt, as we always have. Right now, though, Mr. Wayne, Gotham was as you were as a child: slow and naïve. Gotham doesn’t know change because it doesn’t need to.”

Claire bristled at her bosses’ words. They were packed with with irrefutable mirth—toward Claire. She was a child?

What was it the woman had said to her once: _“You’ll just have to be patient. Your day will come. Gotham’s not ready for change, but when they are, you’ll be the headlines, West. I’ll make sure of it.”_

Yet, beholding the pure venom in her bosses’ eyes, Claire was certain that Danielle did not believe in those words, those lies she’d used to procure the gullible writer there 3 years ago.

With a smug smile, the woman redirected her steely gaze to Mr. Wayne who waited patiently, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Now, Mr. Wayne, if you’ve collected enough information, I must be going. Take your time in leaving—I’ll have someone lock up.”

 _Oh, so now I’m just your little bitch?_ Claire seethed, biting her tongue with such an intensity that it bled.

“Goodnight, Mr. Wayne.” Danielle’s blonde head bobbled away, heel click-clacking away.

 

“And there’s the punchline…” Claire muttered, leaning against the side of her cubicle. The structure dug into her temple.

Bruce Wayne’s eye sought around the room, landing on a forlorn Claire. He sauntered over to her cubicle. “Hear anything you like?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Claire replied, words laced with mirth. “Just the cutting words of my bitchy boss, and intentions of a flashy billionaire who buys lowly newspaper companies with battling an eye.”

“Not all lowly newspaper companies.”

Bruce’s icy blue eyes pierced through the dark. They held such prominence in the dark.

Claire drew herself upright, and watched the blue jewels as they glittered. The seemed so apt, so settled in the thick of night; as though the night was a part of them, a part of _him._

A cool sensation flew through her jaw. Bruce Wayne’s forefinger nestled beneath her jaw bone, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Those blue, blue eyes ignited, a recognition kindling in their hearth.

“You—I thought it was you.”

“What—and you haven’t berated me yet? Not even after I insulted you in your grandiose estate and pissed in your flower garden?” He lifted an eyebrow. Claire giggled.

“OK, so I didn’t do the latter—but I considered it.”

Only, she hadn’t considered it. Claire was miserable, her hopes crushed; goofiness was her outlet.

“You should’ve entertained the idea. It would’ve given the press something to talk about.”

 In spite of the heady feeling in her gut, Claire laughed.

 “That’s a lovely sound.” Bruce Wayne said, flashing his trademark, stunning smile.

Claire rolled her eyes and pushed him away.

“Save your flattery. I’m not one of those showy Barbies you tote through Gotham—that crap doesn’t work on me,” She squinted her eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? A yacht to drive? A woman to lure into your bed? I don’t think loitering around the Gazette is really your speed.”

Bruce Wayne leaned casually against the wall of her cubicle. Claire appraised him with mild surprise. How hadn’t the structure buckled? After all, the man was 100% unadulterated muscle. The structure didn’t stand a chance.

Yet, there he was.

“You presume to know my speed?”

“I’d like to think I do.”

“Whatever you think, you’re wrong.” He said. “I have money, yes—it makes life more comfortable, indulgent. I’m just a man—making a living, buying his time, partaking in what pleasures the world has to offer.” He paused, a wistful humor coloring his voice. “Like you, I’m trying to discover what matters—what should matter—to me. In that, I impose myself in failing businesses.”

“Failing?” Claire echoed. “You’re led to believe the Gazette is going to fail?

“Inevitably,” He said. “The Gazette is lost in a different time. Mark my words, the reign of this place is short lived. It will fall—soon.”

No matter how dubious she was, Claire wasn’t impervious to words of experience

“And why is that, Mr. Wayne?”

“Bruce,” He admonished.

Claire snorted and gestured for him to continue.

It was then that “Bruce” sighed. Tiredness clung to his skin like rain, tainting the guise of the careless, charming playboy.

“Times are changing. Gotham is demanding truth. Gotham has met silence for far too long, let criminals run the city and burn the wills of the people to the ground. For years, Gotham has been satisfied with local marvels and chinsy stories about rescuing cats, restoring parks—the everyday miracles that brought people hope, and helped them escape the crime that littered the streets—they masked the threats to the city’s wellbeing. Now, the people have hope — they’ve sustained themselves on it.”

Claire was in love with his words; the self-assured tone in which he confessed. He was right: people were changing. Sure, Gotham was still brimming with pedophiles and crime lords, but they were dwindling.  People were starting to grasp the dawn, peek through their windows and walk in the night.

Claire loved heroes, but she was skeptical. They were bigger, bolder and a threat. In Gotham, however, it was different—the people were different, the heroes were different.

“Batman,” Claire whispered.

Bruce Wayne’s head whipped in Claire’s direction, alarmed. His blue eyes bulged in their sockets.

“I meant him—Batman—he’s the reason. His contributions—it’s him. He’s changing Gotham, for the better.” She said. “Gotham uses him—uses him for his strength, and thrusts him onto the headline of an article. They try to project his success on the police force, or Gordon, or Dent—the press makes sure of that.”

“Gotham crawls,” she continued. “It sustains itself on the lies and this image—this image the Batman projects! His symbol defines Gotham, and the press denies it! Me—us—the Gazette—it feeds on that ignorance, thrives off it! We’re idiots—idiots! Someone should be writing about this—about him—beyond some headline. The capital, the opportunity…” Claire paused, and peered up at the audience she’d nearly forgotten.

Bruce Wayne’s jaw slacked, his eyes wide. Claire lifted an eyebrow. If she did not know any better, she’d say he was scrutinizing her with a sort of admiration—an epiphany he’d uncovered amid the most bracken of nightmares.

As Claire began to smile, Bruce’s look faded. Any optimism Claire entertained drowned in an idealistic hell.

It was like she’d said nothing—nothing at all.

Claire cleared her throat and rose from her desk chair, collecting her belongings.

“Mr. Wayne, if you please, we should be leaving. It’s getting late and I have work again in a few hours.”

She made to turn but his strong hand caught her forearm.

“Bruce,” He repeated. She could feel those smoldering eyes on her lips, her cheeks but she refused to look at them, succumb to them. “I asked you to call me Bruce.”

“And if I don’t want to, what?” She snapped. “You’ll sell me out to my boss? Degrade me like those tramps you parade around town with? Please—spare me.”

When he didn’t relieve the pressure on her arm, Claire’s head snapped up. Once more, she fell under his icy scrutiny. Only now, those eyes were burning with a hatred, a solemn melancholy. She knew that hatred… It wasn’t meant for her. Rather, at a pain—a pain that ran deeply.

She shook her head. No—not tonight.

Claire straightened and pried off Bruce’s fingers, eradicating them one by one.

“Good night, Mr. Wayne.”

She strode to the threshold of the newsroom, shuffling toward the stairs when her notebook slithered to the floor.

In her wake, Bruce Wayne watched, writhing in personal torment. He made to follow her, but a sudden brightness through the window caught his eye.

There, in the black of night was a beacon. A light. A lone signal wavered in the sky: a wide yellow light with a Bat insignia in its center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...... Bruce Wayne has arrived!
> 
> The way I perceive and write Bruce Wayne is mixture of Golden Age, SIlver Age, and modern Batman. Somehow, in my mind, I integrated all 3 depictions together. I find that I admire Michael Keaton's role as The Batman/Bruce Wayne the best, so you'll note his influence in pauses and often times the awkwardness of his speech.  
> Then, of course, I use the JL/BTAS interpretation of Bruce Wayne. A more brass, goofy, cocky persona. They mingle and interchange to mold what I find to be a devastatingly sexy, appealing, and mysterious hunk 'o Batman.
> 
> Chat Batman with me, I'll love you forever.


	5. Bitter Taste

Bruce stood awkwardly outside Clark’s door, his fist posed over the hunk of wood hesitantly.

It’d been months, years—how would his sudden appearance rub off on his former friend?

Was he a former friend, truly? Perhaps not. Just because Bruce had severed the contact between the two, didn’t mean that he had abandoned bond the two men shared. They were superheroes, colleagues. Opposites? Yes. But foes? Bruce doubted that Clark had it in him.

Bruce’s fist abruptly clashed against the door, rapping twice before falling dejectedly to his side.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Yet, when the door was thrust open seconds later and Clark Kent loomed in its stead, he felt himself lulling into an eerie calm. Perhaps it had been too long.

“Clark.” He rasped, his voice echoing through the hallway. Bruce shifted awkwardly as Superman stared at him, his face all but expressionless.

And Bruce thought that was his job—to appear stoic, neutral, emotionless.

Standing here, he suddenly understood the disdain others held towards him—not that he would endeavor to change that.

Bruce bit back a sigh and shattered the silence he usually felt so akin with.

 “Look, I know—“ He didn’t get the luxury of finishing. Clark swept in and enveloped Bruce in a bone-crushing hug, his arm securing tightly around Bruce’s shoulders.

“Good God, Bruce I thought you were dead!”

“Closer now than ever,” Bruce choked out.

The Kryptonian chuckled and relinquished his hold on a baffled Batman.

“Consider that punishment for leaving me hanging for the past year and a half,” Cark declared, gesturing eagerly from his friend to join him in his apartment. “C’mon in! Make yourself at home.”

It wasn’t the first time Bruce visited Clark’s apartment. The furniture was a mixture of old and modern, the pressing battle between country and city waging within his living room. Bruce supposed he couldn’t judge. His mansion held a stark contrast, too. From room to room it shifted in Romanticism era styles, to Colonial grace, cultural nuances, to beach paraphernalia, new wave adaptations, and even—if he did say so himself—futuristic flourishing.

Money granted a man many things. Interesting décor was one of them.

“You up for some grub? I know a killer 24-hour pizza place that delivers.”

 

Bruce settled himself awkwardly on a tan couch that sunk in a bit in the middle. It squealed under his weight. He lifted a curious eyebrow at the sound. And this was the sofa that supported the Man of Steel?

“Yeah, sure.”  This was beginning to resemble his college years, only with less paperwork.

Clark busied himself with ordering and joined his friend, plopping into a lounge chair.

“So, you going to tell me what’s up? Or do I have to guess?”

Bruce smirked.

“You could try. I doubt you’d come very close.”

“Maybe. I’ve always been good at picking your mind, I wouldn’t cross me off just yet,” Clark teased. “Then again, maybe you’re right. Who can anticipate the mind of the Batman?”

Bruce huffed in amusement and the pair sat analyzing each other, trying to breech through the other man’s armor.

Clark’s face softened and his dark blue eyes fixed Bruce. “How is she?”

“The same,” He replied, voice wrought with tire. “They can’t isolate the poison. She’s been having seizures.”  


“Seizures?” Clark echoed. “The poison?”

“Is spreading.” Bruce finished. “The poison seems to eliminate the transfusion we give her. At this point, there’s not much more the doctors can do.”

Superman creased his eyebrows, reclined his head.

“I’ve tried to locate the best, too, you know. Interrogation on the Joker is still impossible—I’m sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce merely nodded, thankful for the chiming of the doorbell. Clark bounded across the room, shuffling his feet and returned with a greasy pizza box. Bruce reached forward and grabbed a slice, finding purchase in the cheesy taste.

He smiled to himself— _she_ would’ve loved this. Pizza, and the solemnity of two super friends.

Superman stacked three slices and devoured them expertly. “Nothing like Mom ‘n Pop ships, I tell ya Back in Smallville food was quality.”

“How’s Lois?” Bruce asked, trying his best to maintain conversation. He hadn’t communicated on such a personal level in so long, especially not to a fellow teammate. Team—was that even in his vocabulary anymore?

“Fantastic! If things keep like they are, I’ll be slipping a ring on her finger in no time! Not that I don’t enjoy all the benefits outside of marriage,” he winked, scoffing down another slice of pizza. “But I can’t help feeling like marriage would offer us more—something to hang on to.  I still want that. In fact, I don’t think I ever stopped wanting that—maybe that’s my mom talking.” He grinned.

“Marriage certainly has its benefits. You two would make a stunning couple.” Bruce forced a smile, his thoughts darkening at the prospect of his own marriage.

“You think?” Superman chirped, perking up like a little kid.

“Wedding of the year.” Bruce chuckled.

Clark laughed, a genuine sound that rattled off the walls and set Bruce a little more at ease.

“Oh, I’m sure. Say—you wouldn’t know a wedding planner that could work with two journalists’ salaries, would you?”

“No, but I know a guy who’ll pay for it all in full, no questions asked.”

“Really? You would do that?” Clark blinked, raising his hands in a warding gesture. “Uh-uh, no way! I couldn’t ask for you to do that!”

“So don’t.” Bruce replied, leaving no room for argument. “When the time comes, call me. We’ll sit down and sort out the details.” Bruce extended his hand.

 “I don’t get much of an option, do I?”

“Nope.” The two shook hand and retreat back to their original positions, the formalities disappearing almost as quickly as the pizza—they both knew that there was business to attend to, no matter how vast their separation was.

“I’m requesting admission back into the League.” Bruce blurted, shattering the aching in his chest.

_She would want this._

“Absolutely!” Superman beamed, hopping up from his chair. “Although, you realize that you were never unadmitted,” He pointed out, crossing his arms. “It was your decision not to stay in contact, with me or anyone in the League. I won’t pretend that I don’t understand why but, you have to know that some people won’t be as forgiving as I am.”

Bruce stood hesitantly and raked his eyes over his friend in disbelief.

 “That’s it?” He prodded. “No questions asked?”

“Of course not. You’re a founding member! One of the guys who started it all! You think I’m going to deny you access into a club in which you already belong?”

“A club,” Bruce mused. “Is that what we’re calling ourselves now? The Justice Club?”

“No, but it saves face in the press. You should see the things reporters are writing about us,” Clark gestured to the newspaper folded on the coffee table.

 Bruce slided it between his fingers.

‘ **MASKED MENANCES**.’ It screams. ‘ **BEING NORMAL IS A THING OF THE PAST**.’

Bruce chuckled as he skimmed the ludicrous ramblings of the columnist. Supers were synonymous to evil, useful only to diminish the human race.

“Idiots,” he rumbled. “This isn’t the first time this happened, and it won’t be the last. People fear what they don’t understand and the strength of the League—the mutations and irregular abilities—they can’t fathom. Avert another national crisis. They’ll come around.”

“Bruce, it escalates by the day. I’m led to believe it’ll never end, or even slow down. This is the worst its ever been.”

“When I surfaced in Gotham city years ago, people detested me. My cowl was plastered on every bulletin, every paper,and every wanted poster in the city. They didn’t understand: the press, the cops, the DA—none of them could wrap their heads around why some guy would devote his time to parading around in a bat suit in the dread of the night. Bank robbers, felons, muggers, the like—they didn’t get it? Over time, I became _their_ Batman. Not _the_ Batman. It’s all malleable. Just as the perception of the Justice League has changed time and time again—we will be loved, then hated, then loved again. The people think themselves vulnerable, and envy the abilities of the League. Let them be confused, Clark. Let them learn. We’re still learning ourselves, truth be known.”

Circumstances were just that: circumstantial. Things would change. They would always change, for the whole of society.

“I hope you’re right.” Superman announced, rubbing a hand over the back of his head, stirring his shadowy mane.

After a silent moment, Clark grinned and made for his bedroom, a newly acquired confidence in his step.

“Where are you going?”

“You said you’re rejoining the League right?”

“Your point?”

Superman halted and turned around to squander Bruce his best ‘are-you-serious’ look.

Bruce grunted in admission.

_Oh, that._

***

Sitting there, baking under the fluorescent lights of the League Conference Room, reminded Bruce of just how greatly he despised League meetings.

Every. Last. One.

They were daunting, demanding and, more than not, trivial.

That meeting in particular vexed his patience. The figureheads were all present—minus Flash, who was content with little Parker in Metro City—including some of the newer members who rose to favor in the League ranks. All of these members, to Batman’s obvious discontentment, took turns glancing his way, devouring his presence with restless curiosity and scrutiny. Of the faces, Hawkgirl glanced over the least, no doubt finding herself in a similar place as he, rejoining the originals and their new fleas.

Shayera had sound thoughts, and the heart of a warrior. Batman didn’t bother to hold her past against her, despite the terror the Benagarians had wrecked on Earth years ago. One person couldn’t be held accountable for the faults of a race, nevertheless by their own actions; the past was the past, as it should be. And Bruce Wayne, of all people, was in no place to judge others by their past.

At least not today.

“Shazam—you’ll take the Eastern corner of Washington—Help out the PD until we can nail down who’s behind all this,” Superman concluded, referring to a string of violent protests in Washington D.C. Such protests spurred several fatalities and terrorist threats against the government. According to sources, these threats were likely linked to the rapidly building detestation for The Justice League and associates.

“Yessir and, ah, should I go now or….?”

“Just a moment,” Superman replied, casting a conspiratorial glance at Shazam, no doubt cursing himself for deciding to keep the pre-pubescent superhero in the league, despite the deception of age. Batman had stayed his hand in that too, it seemed. “Any questions?

Wonderwoman’s lithe arm pierced the air immediately, her cerulean orbs pressing against Batman, all by nailing him to the chair under their scrutiny.

“I have a question,” She paused, initiating contact with everyone in the cabinet before uttering her plight, the words slicing the thick air like daggers. “Why has Batman returned?”

“Wonderwoman—“ Superman began, only to be cut off by the raging Amazon, her fists clenched under her breasts.

“He never submitted a formal resignation. Hera, he did not even announce his absence to us! We were all lead to believe he disappeared, died even. He has not been active in Gotham and he certainly has not been active in the League. Can anyone tell me why he should be welcomed back with open arms, after no communication for nearly 2 years?”

Green Lantern grunted, his muscular arms bared across his chest. “I don’t think it’s any of our business.”

“And what do you propose our business is then, Lantern?” Wonderwoman quipped. “If a member wishes remittance into the League, all League executives should be informed and the matter put to a vote.”

“What are we—a coporation? Last I checked, we respect our own,” Green Lantern argued. “If someone—any one of us in this room—were to leave, right now, because of some personal obligation, I wouldn’t stop him. We all live different lives outside of the costume and, last I checked, that’s none of our God damn business.”

“So he, what? Went on vacation?” Cyborg chuckled, rubbing a black hand against his glassy, automated eye. “We can do that?”

 

Batman shot a surprised, if not bemused glance in Cyborg’s proximity.

Cyborg raised his hands in surrender.

“Nothing against you, Batman. Just hedging for a little bit of PTO.”

“Wait, we get paid?” Shazam piped.

Superman sputtered. “No we don’t—we—Diana, do you find it necessary to request a vote for Batman’s membership? The man’s credentials run a mile long—his money alone started the Justice League, and you wish to revoke the rights to what he created?”

“By Hera, I do!” She announced, rising from her chair and striking her hands atop the steely table. “I want a vote—but in the least, I want an explanation for his absence, Superman—we all deserve one. Every single one of us.”

Green Lantern shifted in his chair and adverted his eyes to the white paneled ceiling. “League decisions shouldn’t be made personal.” He muttered, so quietly only the possessors of super hearing in the room could decipher it.

Superman and J’onn fought desperately to maintain a neutral grimace.

“It wouldn’t be fair to vote on anything without the Flash present.” Hawkgirl interjected, her electric green eyes catching Batman’s.

“Speaking of which, where is he? Since when are we allowed to abandon official League meetings?” Wonderwoman seethed.

The Leaguers shook their heads at her hostile demeanor. This was personal. Batman realized this, now. He would deal with her later—and by dealing, he meant avoid her at all costs.

“And who are you? Zeus?” Lantern snapped, also rising to his feet, jeering at her across the table that divided them. “This isn’t Olympus, Diana. On Earth, we look after our own. I won’t sit here and listen to you chew out our colleagues like some God—can’t you see that’s why they hate us right now in D.C? Hell, all over the Globe? We aren’t Gods, Diana! I’m sure as hell not, anyway.”

“And just what are you insinuating?” She leaned predatorily towards her opponent, every bit the hulking, menacing Amazon.

By this point, the conference had been shot to hell, morphing into a whirl of words and accusations, all of which were hurled between Lantern and Wonderwoman, with the occasional jab from another member.

 Shazam here, J’onn there, an exasperated tout from Superman. It was chaos, barbaric even, and Batman could stand it no longer.

In a menacing swirl of black, the stoic knight rose, straddling his gloved hands on either side of the table. His eyes narrowed beneath his cowl.

J’onn, the first to notice him, inclined his head in silent respect. He’d always possessed an unnerving confidence in Bruce—a confidence Bruce wasn’t sure he deserved.

Eventually, the entire table quieted and lowered into their chairs, save Diana who loomed loathingly at Batman from across the table.

“I left the League for personal motivations that I don’t expect you’ll ever understand.” He said, clutching the taciturn slab of steel between his fingers. “In my absence, I have maintained full communication with the League and its correspondents. From Gotham, I ran the systems and databases. My normal duties. In or out of The Watch Tower.”

“It’s true,” J’onn acquiesced. “Without Batman, we would not have been able to further investigate CADMUS or the string of murders in Metro City 6 months ago. Batman’s services have been invaluable.”

Cyborg snorted in agreement, inserting his bit on the ins and outs of the central computer, noting Batman’s maintenance dates.

“I could pull up a log.” He suggested, typing some codes into the electric cogs of his arm. “The system tracks all updates and requires my authorization every time Batman cuts into the server. The computer logs all of the changes and feeds it back to me. Bats couldn’t blink without my electronic signature.”

 _Right_. Batman bore back a cocky grin.

“Actions speak louder than words.” Diana rebuked, stubborn to the last. “Computers don’t save lives. His duty is still lacking and I demand it be addressed.”

“Demand?” Lantern bellows in disbelief, throwing his face in his hands.

“And it stands that Batman never truly quit the League, if J’onn’s words hold truth,” The Man of Steel said, rubbing his palms together in finality. “I say we have nothing to incriminate Batman with besides his lack of tangible, heroic deeds. Not that it applies to him anyway, seeing as his duties are usually accomplished in the dark, hidden from the public eye.” He winked at Bruce, his words evoking a bemused murmuring amongst the panel. “Batman returns to active duty and maintains his responsibilities as an active Justice League member, effective immediately.”

With that, Superman gestured freely about the room, dismissing the panel to return to their duties and missions, wherever they may lie.

Upon exiting, Batman received a few “Welcome Backs” and congratulations. People who knew of his disposition, such as Green Lantern, nodded solemnly. Batman was grateful. If John Stewart knew of his current disarray—for lack of a more potent, emotion inducing adjective—he knew that it would be difficult to muster a greeting that didn’t border along the lines of an apology or guilt ridden omission of sympathy. Indeed, GL had been there a year and half ago, in Gotham, with Superman and Flash as the Caped Crusader tore through the wreckage, howling into the night in blatant wrath and passion; witnessed as Batman rucked through the streets, sneering into every crevasse, every dumpster, every abandoned, disease ridden alley.

Flash’s hands….

  _“Bruce, enough—he’s gone. GL and Supes have him in custody,.” Red gloves bore back his cape, hauling him back. “This isn’t helping her!”_

_“And what do you care?” He snarled, whipping around and delivering a fatal blow to Wally’s jaw, his lightning reflexes unable to save him from the ferocity of Batman’s assault. “You can’t possibly begin to understand my torment, my suffering! You can’t understand the darkness, the regret, the rage that breeds from knowing that he lives, that he breathes—that I let him live. He deserves to die!”_

_“You don’t mean that!” Wally shrieked, swiveling his jaw uncertainly. Batman allowed the slightest hint of guilt to slip under his deadly resolve, restraining another jab._

_“He doesn’t.” Lantern affirmed, standing amid the distressed Wally and the seething Crusader, arms outstretched in a warding gesture towards the red costumed hero before him. “His true instincts will kick in eventually. Best thing to do right now is let him go.”_

_“Let him go?” Wally wailed in disbelief. “Do you see him? He’s lethal! He could kill someone!”_

_“The way I see it, we don’t have much of a choice.” Oliver Queen materialized, in his everyday alter ego, chocolate trench coat fastened over a complimenting pair of jeans. He nodded to the blank space that was once inhabited by The Dark Knight.._

_Superman joined the ensemble of heroes, running an indecisive hand over his lips, as if to ward away the tenuous situation. “Never thought I’d see the day...”_

_Flash and GL glanced inquiringly toward their leader, eyebrows drawn up in question. Oliver, however, nodded in stanch agreement._

_“No, I didn’t either. But—way I figure—it’s bound to happen to us all eventually. You can’t do what we do and not have some scar to show for it. You can only lose so much” He sighed, a wary, shaky sound. “Nah, I don’t blame him.”_

Batman inclined his head as he evacuated the meeting room, raking his way through the familiar white vestibules and heroic faces, careful not to linger too intently on any one of them.

 

 


	6. Sealed

Bruce Wayne’s prediction held true— _too_ true.

Days later, Claire shuffled into the Gazette to an utter disaster—wiped hard drives, League antics and competing newspapers catching the edge on stories.

Claire spent most of the morning running from cubicle to cubicle, sorting out word documents and typing errors; comparing story after story. Would this one do? Was this headline material? What did Danielle think? It wasn’t until 3 o’clock that Claire had wrangled a headline and plopped what was to be Saturday morning’s final print on her boss’s desk.

Danielle snatched the paper up immediately, not bothering with addressing her frazzled servant.

Claire hairs stood erect on nearly every curvature of her head; her cheeks were littered with ink stains in varying colors—blue, black, pink, green—and her blazer was unbuttoned, fanning out around her blouse lazily.

On top of her less-than-stellar appearance, Claire was mentally flailing, banging her head against an imaginary wall repeatedly until blood drew across her subconscious. She’d barely slept since the encounter to Bruce near her cubicle.

No, Claire decided to spend the evenings mulling over her laptop and shifting through various searches on the billionaire—his investments, his playmates, his tastes. In every aspect of the word, Bruce Wayne was an enigma, a trendsetter. The tabs laid out on her browser all cried of wealth, and power, and prestige, complete with playboy grins and flashy parties—yet, was that all of what shaped Bruce Wayne?

Claire wasn’t one to lie, especially as it pertained to beauty. Bruce has handsome, painfully so. Yet, it was not merely his exquisite looks at beckoned her attention; rather, his words. Basking in Bruce Wayne’s words was like enduring a treacherous wave: rock, confusing, beautiful and terrifying.

Any moment, the waters could cave, and swallow her in a grave, watery cocoon. But she could also gaze, and wonder, and marvel at the intricate pattern the sea wielded. The turquoise taint, the faint caress of the sun of it caught the perfect angle, the touch to illuminate the sheer beauty of nature, of needlework genius.

And then—before either scenario of watery death or wonderment—the wave had died, smoothed out into oblivion and settled on a gradual lulling.

Boring. Simple. A mask.

 “West!” Danielle grumped at Claire over her desk. “This was the best you could do? This garbage?”

Daniele scrunched her eyelids closed and set a hand to her temple, massaging it diligently.

“Those were the articles I was given.” Claire replied bluntly. “I don’t do the reporting—I just edit what your fledglings bring me.”

“I know your job all too well, West. I put you there, and I can replace you just as easily.” Danielle opened her eye slowly, calculatingly.

Claire rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, try finding someone to put up with the shit you shove on my desk—the assignments, the 3AM stake-outs, the provisional reporting when you stretch your dogs too thin,” Claire leaned forward to brace herself on the edge of Danielle’s desk, emerald eyes narrowing in challenge. “OH— and forget the crap-ass salary you pay me. They’ll come flocking in droves—from all directions!”

Danielle’s lips puckered, her teeth biting into her left cheek in what appeared to be painful—not that Claire cared, of course. Her boss shifted in her plush rolling chair and perched her elbows on either arm rest. He perfectly trimmed blonde eyebrows moved up and down.

 

Several silent, piquant, heated moments later, Danielle sighed.

 “You’re an asset here, West. You shouldn’t doubt your worth. After all, I don’t hire any willy, silly scholar that stumbles across my office. Quality, I insist, is the Gazette’s motto, quality,” She stretched the word several long, calculating seconds. “Bearing that in mind, I ask—respectfully—that you save your crass affronts for your writing. If you were to say, tread more carefully… Well, maybe you could upgrade from the hobble of a cubicle.” Her olive orbs flashed up to Claire.

“Save for my—my writing—what writing?” She sputtered. “I’ve been here 3 years and still haven’t written anything!”

 “And there is a reason for that!” Danielle hissed. “You were a witness to Bruce Wayne’s input on the Gazette. I don’t need to tell you that it’s confidential, but, I see it’s rattled you. Mr. Wayne talks nonsense—nonsense that does you no good to remember. All Gotham’s Prince worries about is what will amass his fortune more greatly than it already is. People like Mr. Wayne never stop—never give up in the battle for advancement and power. He doesn’t care about—“

“If he doesn’t care for The Gazette, then why did he reach out to purchase it in the first place? Look, if Bruce Wayne wanted some easy cash he’d get it—somewhere, somehow. The fact that Bruce Wayne sought this specific print out before the rest is important! We can’t just—we can’t just over look that. Obviously, the Gazette means something to him. He cares for it.”

Danielle cackled—a raunchy, terrible sound.

“Cares? Claire, you’re an idiot. Bruce Wayne cares about nothing—do you even read the news? No, Wayne has an ulterior motive and I’ll be damned if I let him rake over this us.”

 A shrill ringing broke through Danielle’s office, her eyes dropping to the rattling phone atop her desk. She cleared her throat and snatched up her phone, shooing Claire with a wave of her hand.

Claire slumped her shoulders and made to flee, her face burning with shame.

“Oh, and West?” Claire paused, refused to look over her shoulder. “Redo that final draft—and axe Jeffers, that Power Plant piece is deplorable.”

“Of course.” Claire exited the office, muttering a strand of profanity in her wake.

***

Eyes scratchy, Claire tittered out of the Gazette, tiredly sliding her key into the office doors. She sighed, comforted by the definitive click that announced the closing of another day, another issue and another late night.

Claire drew her eyes to the sky: a vast, ebony canvas scattered with twinkling lights. She smiled.

 _Beautiful._ She rubbed her knuckles roughly against her heavy eyelids.

“I beginning to wonder if you were ever going to show up.”

Claire clutched at her purse, wheeled a full 360 degrees, and suctioned herself against the cool, glass entrance of the _Gotham Gazette._

She balled her hand into a fist and struck the air, aiming for the stranger’s temple. Wally’s words thrummed through her mind: Temple, nose, temple, nose.

“Claire—it’s Bruce—Stop—Claire!” Bruce Wayne managed to lock his hands around her wrists.

“W…Wayne?” Claire’s breath hurried out in short, stuttered procession. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Claire wretched back her hands and thrust a punch against his chest. Heat seared through her knuckles, trickled up her arm. She clutched her injured hand desperate, aiming a glare in Bruce’s direction. “Are you made of fucking steel?!”

“I’m certain my x-rays would claim otherwise.” Bruce said. His eyes glinted with some private amusement.

“That doesn’t—I—you know my name?” Claire fisted her hands, and crossed them under her breats.. “I never told you my name.”

“You didn’t have to.” He hand touched the nape of his neck—a brief, subtle gesture.

Claire cast him an assessing look, her lips curling up into an ironic smile.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say the notorious Bruce Wayne is nervous.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, quirked his lips into a smile.

“So, why are you here, Wayne. Last I checked, there weren’t any simpering victims around here to lure into your cave.”

Bruce grinned, his glistening teeth a beacon in the dark contrast of the night.

“A cave? What makes you think I have a cave?”

“It’s only natural—you boast that whole alluring, can’t-touch-this, mysterious charm thing.” Claire gestured to his immaculate figure. “It screams Vampire.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be indulging in foolish myths?” He said. “Besides, vampires lurk in cellars and crypts, not caves.”

 

“No, no—you’re more of a cave kind-of guy. I bet you hoard bats, and leave them to finish off your victims.”

“Your theory is missing one thing,” Bruce indulged. “I’m a billionaire—if your scenario held any merit, I’d just summon by butler to discard the carnage, no bats required.”

“Yes, but that leaves nothing for my imagination,” Claire struggled against the exhaustion that weighed in her chest. “Why are you here, again?”

“I wanted to see you again to… apologize.” He muttered, dug his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think you heard me last night—I don’t want you to see me—to look at me through the papers and—“

“The papers are the only proof I have you, Mr. Wayne. You’ve got a lot stacked against you—excuse me if I’m not convinced.”

“Bruce,” He corrected.  “You, of all people, know the media lies.”

“People lie, too. What’s to say that you aren’t lying, too?”

Bruce sighed. “Claire, I don’t apologize for everyone. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have thought twice about visiting you tonight.”

“Say that’s true,” Claire rounded him inquisitively, her fingered trailed the bridge of her nose. “It doesn’t explain why you care—or how you know my name.”

 “Let’s just say I found something of yours, something you dropped last night. It had your name on it.”

“So much for a secret identity,” She mumbled, holding out her hand.

Bruce examined her hand in amusement.

“Oh, no. Return it—whatever it is—now.”

“I have every intention of returning what belongs to you—I’m a vampire, not a thief, remember? I’ll return your belongs on a few conditions.”

In spite of herself, Claire giggled. “And those would be?”

“Let me drive you home tonight—you shouldn’t be leaving from work alone this late, in Gotham, unarmed.”

“Gee, thanks dad.” Claire rolled her eyes to the night sky. “Fine. The second thing?”

“You go out with me tomorrow evening.”

“You—what—no—no? **_No_**. Absolutely not!” She shrilled. What game was he playing at?

“Then we have nothing more to talk about.” Bruce said simply, turning to the flamboyant red Lamborghini that idled on the street corner. “Get in the car. I’m still taking you home.”

“I beg to differ!” Claire backed away from him, seeking solace under the lone light in front of the Gazette.

“It’s not up for debate, you already agreed. Get in the car.”

 

“And who are you to tell me?” She yelled, crossing the distance between them and hovering a finger to his chest, mindful not to jab it again, for fear of losing it permanently. “You may convince other women to revel at your feet, but not me. I want whatever belongs to me—now. AND I want to walk home, by myself. Alone. Without your supervision.”

Bruce grunted, turned away. Claire relaxed her expression, lowered her arm.

What he was giving up, so quickly? She looked to the ground in shame, guilt searing through her bones.

“Hey, I appreciate—“

Claire was sweep up into Bruce’s arms, her curvy figure tossed effortlessly over his shoulder. She pounded relentlessly against his back, desperate to interrupt his ceaseless, boastful saunter.

“PUT ME DOWN!” The passenger spiraled upward with mechanical ease, and Claire was thrust into a plush leather seat. She darted to leave, but the door tittered back into place. She was trapped.

Bruce settled behind the steering wheel, and pulled away into a careless street, embarking toward the innercity.

“Where’s Batman when you need him?” Claire eyes the billionaire beside her: all grins, and ease. Street signs passed, and Claire could hardly handle the silence. “Would you like to tell me why you won’t just give me my—well, whatever you have?”

“Agree to dinner tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you.” He asked for the directions to her apartment, and turned down another street.

“I don’t get it,” Claire said. “You want to, what—take me to some gaudy restaurant and flaunt you money—turn here—to return a pencil from my desk? It doesn’t add up, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” He paused in front of Claire’s battered apartment complex. It was ancient building, the outside plastered in a grotesque green paint, peeling down the sides. “It’s your pencil, Claire. _If_ you want it back, you’ll agree. If not, I have something to add to my desk.”

“So it IS a pencil?”

“Do you often purchase pencils with your name on it?” Bruce angled toward Claire in his leather seat, cocked an eyebrow.

 _Yes._ “No—but you would know if I did, wouldn’t you?”

“Looks like you’ll just have to uncover the answer tomorrow, over dinner.”

Claire’s eyes challenged his, green clashing against blue: the ground versus the sky—reality and disillusion, dancing in an elaborate clash of wills. Balancing, opposite, exquisite.

Did Claire want to do this—this whatever it was? A date? Claire urged to fight against the temptation, the searing need to debunk the mystery that was Bruce Wayne—to revel in his presence, and live to tell the tale. He was adventure—a conquest—and Claire’s heart dared to see more, to feel more.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, fearing the words that dared to escape: “I’ll go.”

Bruce flashed a triumphant smile, and retrieved a card from his suit pocket, tucking it into Claire’s hand. His thumb skirted the back of her hand—soothing, gentle. “I’ll have a car pick you up at 5.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking a taxi.” Claire relished in the soft affection that ravaging her hand, a warmth kindling in the bottom of her stomach.

“5 O’clock.” Bruce reached over to open her door.

Claire exited his car, slapped the metal contraption good-bye. She hustled into her building and climber the creaky stairs until she stopped at the door of her neglected apartment. Entering, Claire ran to the inside window to view the red Lamborghini that stalled on her street. The driver’s head was inclined to the night sky: the Bat signal, blazing through the night.

The car lingered a moment longer, then departed. Yet, the Journalist stayed, eyes eagerly tracing the night.

_What have I done?_


	7. Raining Glass

5 o’clock.

Claire’s eyes stared at the TV, dwarfed under plaid covers. The pictures lulled across the screen—puns said, motivations revealed, figures moved.

5 o’clock.

Unable to stand the idleness, Claire exploded. Up from the bed, around the room, Claire paced.

What did he want with her, of _all_ people? She was a lowly journalist: depressed, alone, struggling with dreams that were too naïve to take flight.

Alone—she was always alone. She never dated. College was a solemn time, hectic—she didn’t have time to pursue a love life. Not that she had a long string of followers, she reasoned, ever cynical.

 _It’s not a date._ Claire wrought her hand through her bed-riddled hair. A date implied two willing parties, two _interested_ parties—and was Bruce truly interested in her?

 _Of course not._ Claire ran to her closet, rifled through her limited selection of clothing. _Wayne wants someone to help balance his image, a savior in the office. He wants a heads up when shit hits the fan._

It made sense, didn’t it? Claire ran the headlines, edited the papers. She could make any adjustments she chose—Bruce would have an in, a confidant. Claire would hold the keys to his secrets, the man behind the grandeur. She smirked.

5 o’clock.

Claire studied her face in the mirror: ample, assessing, freckled. She wrought a hand through the long, rosy tussles of her hair. She smeared her eyes with charcoal, bewitched by the woman who stared back at her. Green—deep, emerald green. Her eyes rolled over her reflection like waves: ruthless, merciless. She could not hide from herself; from the waves.

Since the only tasteful clothing she possessed was a pantsuit, which suffered in a Gotham dry cleaned, Claire had to settle for the next best thing: a dress.

The white dress sheathed her body, amplifying the mountains of her breasts, and the smooth curvature of her body—while snug to her figure, the dress was conservative; no glimpse of her skin, and the mysteries that lay beneath it. The dress hugged her arms, a long-sleeved ensemble.

In this light, she though, she could trace the memories of years past—college, friends, laughs.

Ancient.

5 o’clock—the doorbell rand.

Suddenly rushed, Claire threw her hair in a bun and fastened it low to her neck. It bounced as she fumbled to the door, struggling to fasten turquoise earrings to her ear.

_This is it._

Upon opening the door, Claire paused. Instead of the debonair businessman, Claire was greeted by a short henchman: his black hair slicked back from a boisterous forehead, his eyes alight with a smile.

“Miss West?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” She raised an eyebrow.

The henchman laughed and held his arm out to the journalist. She took it hesitantly, gaping as her eyes settled on the chic, black Cadillac that stalled outside her house.

The drive was agonizing, for Claire fell victim to her thoughts. The Cadillac trekked across Gotham: the scenery shifted from the dimly lit, trash ridden and rodent infested concrete jungle of the innercity. In the city’s stead, was uptown. Lights flooded the streets, and towers pierced the night sky, some so high they were fitted with blinking lights at their highest points—a beacon.

The driver maneuvered into an oval driveway, pulled up to the curb. He clambered out onto the sidewalk, reaching for Claire’s door—only, she’d long exited, her feet thudding against the pavement.

Wayne selected an uptown venue. It was uproariously modern, embodied by two stores of chic glass and granite siding. The structure glittered against the sinking sun. Claire watched the clientele that bustled to and fro—fur coats, tight dresses, lush fabric. Such grandeur, bigotry.

 _Funny how the other half of Gotham rots, and these people are oblivious._ Florescent street lights, cleanly paved roads, trash-cleared alleys and sidewalks. You’d think, amid the wealth, the patrons would raise their eyes, donate money to the wilting exterior of inner Gotham.

Perhaps Bruce was one of them.

Amid her contempt, Claire gawked at the enormous waterfalls that framed either side of the restaurant’s central archway, the water framed in such a way that if one were to cross the threshold, one would assuredly be soaked. Claire bustled to the waterfall, dared to walk beneath it. She watched as the water trickled off some invisible boundary, feeding into shallow reservoirs on either side of the building. Claire thrust her head into the reservoirs, smiling at the plant life within tethered by blue and purple stones. Coy fish shimmied to and fro, gracing the biome with life and color.

An attendant scrutinized Claire’ enthuse, a wry taunting smirk lilting his lips. Claire narrowed her eyes at him, pursed her lips. The attendant scattered, taking to the valet in the distance.

 _That’s right—go scrounge up your tips. I’m salary, bitches._ Claire deliberately decided not to focus on the fact that those scrounged tips, undoubtedly, toppled her own pay. Hell, mice that dwelled in McDonald’s made more than her after tallying up a day of crumbs.

 _Little victories,_ she reasoned. _Little victories._

Claire entered and approached a large granite counter. The attendant peeped up at her minutely, beady blue eyes drifting over her body in assessment and returned to whatever task he toiled over.

 “Name?” His voice was as monotone, dull.

 

“Wayne.” Claire clasped her hands together, heat flooding her cheeks. “It should be under Bruce Wayne.”

The attendant chuckled, a brief “tee-hee-hee” and meet her stare evenly.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Wayne has made no such reservations here this evening, perhaps you have the wrong location. Or…” He waves his hand and offers her a smarmy smile.

“Or?” Claire pressed. _Spit it out, troll._

The man sniggered.

“Look, I have da—arrangement with Mr. Wayne. Tonight—here.  You can act like a little jackass on your own time because you sure as hell aren’t wasting mine on your sniveling bullshit. Got it?” The attendant glowered at Claire, his mouth forming a distinctive ‘O’. “I’m to gather from your ridiculous expression that we’ve have an agreement, yes? Now, get your happy ass on the phone and dial up Bruce Wayne—I’m sure he’s some kind of benefactor to this uncongenial shithold—and escort me to my damn table.”

“Owner, actually.”

Claire whirled on her heel to greet the billionaire behind her. She crossed her arms, drew in her eyebrows. “You are—“

Any protest died on her lips as she devoured the divinity of the man before her. Bruce Wayne, in all his finery, adorned a fitting white polo and navy blazer, his navy blue trousers complimenting the ensemble beautifully. With dull amusement, Claire noticed the shiny, white boat shoes that peer up from his feet—what, retiring from a long day of yachting?

Bruce ensnared her with a luminous smile, his billion dollar beam igniting the room.

 “Mr. Wayne—what a pleasure to see you! I—I would have readied your table if you’d called a—ahead! It’s no bother, though—so, sincerely sorry. I’ll, ah, tend to your table immediately, sir. Such an inconvenience, confusion!” The attendant at the reception desk scurried around to Bruce’s feet, his beady eyes beseeching remorse.

“Charlie!” The receptionist squawked at a passing waiter, and gestured to Bruce. Charlie’s eyes bluged in his sockets before cantering in the distance, hands wailing above his head.

_Hourly, pft._

Bruce, seemingly oblivious to the ordeal, feasted his attentions on the woman before him. He extended his hand, winked an eye. “You’re right, I’m late. My apologies—something came up at the office.”

Claire accepted his hand nervously, drying to restraint the burgeoning smile that beckoned her lips.

“Oh, well, I hope you don’t mind me harassing your staff.” She raised an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d consult your manager. The service here is deplorable.”

Bruce laughed, and threaded his sunglasses through the divot in his Polo.

“That color,” Bruce scanned her appraisingly. “It suits you.”

“Well, it’s white—like me, incidentally,” She waggled her free hand sardonically, fighting the uneasy giggles that threatened to flee her throat. “Are you sure you had an ‘emergency at the office’?” She mimicked his deep voice. “You look like you just rolled off a yacht—not that it would surprise me.”

Bruce had the dignity to appear ruffled: his eyebrows quirked, lips askew.

Charlie returned to escort the pair to their table. Bruce Wayne squeezed Claire’s hand and tugged her to follow the attendant, embarking up a winding stair case each step boasting bright light. From her ascendance, Claire observed the restaurant: customers maneuvered morsels into their mouth, and waiters zoomed by, faces obscured by incorrigible grimaces.

In her stupor, Bruce Wayne’s hand trailed to the small of Claire’s back, subtly guiding her on an upper story lined with exotic plants and décor. Colossal windows surrounded the room and offered a vast view of uptown Gotham.

Charlie gestured to their table, a large piece of furniture covered by a silky sapphire cloth. Bruce beat Charlie to Claire’s seat, wrenching back the chair for her leisure.

Claire sat and scooted forward before Bruce’s hands could push against her seat back. She glared at him across the table, her arms crossed. Once seated, Bruce quirked an eyebrow. This was a game, a challenge—an elaborate clashing of wills.

“Your usual, Mr. Wayne?” Charlie inquired, fingers chasing one another nervously.

Bruce nodded. His eyes settled on Claire, churning with questions. Claire could sense them, lurking, waiting.

“And for you, Miss?”

“I’ll have a beer, please. Heineken.” The waiter tilted his head, an ironic smile simpering about his thin lips. “What?”

Brue ducked his head to the tablecloth, illy disguising an earsplitting grin.

“Bring her a Paulaner.” Bruce said.

Charlie nodded, disappeared and the two at the table sat in silence.

Finally, Bruce eased back into his chair with finesse, draping an arm over the seatback. “So, is this how we’re going to spend the night? You, fencing against me? Playing me for the fool? ”

“Late afternoon,” Clare advised, ever contrary.

“Semantics.” Bruce’s easy demeanor became predatory. His eyes darkened and his smile faded. “I didn’t ask you out to impress with all of this,” He swept his hand to indicate the room. “I’ve told you so before, it’s about time you believed it.” He sighed. “Although, seeing as you’re so uninterested here…”

Bruce shifted forward and shuffled a hand into his blazer pocket, withdrawing a tattered green notebook and dangled it over the table.

Claire identified it immediately, her eyes flashed. 

 _He has my notebook?_ Claire snatched the notebook. It brimmed with her ideas and intimate meanderings—the untold mysteries of the ever-disgruntled Claire West. Her words her delicate and, in most entries, explicit. Her talent strode through on every page, boasting of more than mere news stories and investigations.

Her full name— **CLARISSE WEST** —was written boldly in sharpie along the cover.

“You realize that if I take this, here, now, that I could leave.” She ventured. “This kinda throws a damper in your whole, well, whatever this is.”

“Whatever this is?” Bruce set his elbow on the table, rested his forefinger along the side of his face, as though propping up his head. “I thought it was evident that this was a date.”

“No—no, no, no, we never classified this as a date.” Claire replied testily, puffing out her cheeks. 

This is what this is about isn’t it? You don’t want to be seen in public with Bruce Wayne?” He shook his head. “That’s a first.”

 “No—I can’t date, Mr. Wayne—Bruce, hell. It’s not just you—it’s any living, breathing male candidate—you just make it more challenging,” Claire managed, one hand clutching her forehead. “You’re wasting your time—and mine. We should just call it here, stay on our separate sides of the city.”

“Should,” Bruce enticing blue eyes glistened in the candlelight. The danced with mirth, dejection. “It’s always what we _should_ do—what _should_ happen—and that’s how we torture ourselves, you and me.” His lip quivered. “We spend our lives doting shoulds, Claire, the ifs. Gotham _should_ have a lower crime rate, people _should_ live by a feasible moral code, ethics. But, how many criminals rot in Arkham? The Gotham penitentiary? _Should_ is useless.”

Claire blinked, reveling in his small rant. Once again she was beguiled by his words, mesmerized by his passion. She should leave—flee from here before she could not bear to escape—but, if the distinctive gnawing in her stomach was any indication, it was too late.

She was trapped, ensnared in his bewitching rhetoric. There was no escape.

Claire, in spite of herself, laughed. Charlie returned with their drinks and eyed the giggling journalist skeptically. She clasped the table cloth, wiped at her eyes.

 “I-I’m sorry—I just… No—second thought—I’m not sorry,” She spoke in hurried, clipped tones. “You speak as if you _care—_ about me, about love, about Gotham. We both know you don’t. You worry about yourself and your friends—your Cadillacs and parties and heiresses. I know your type, Wayne. That bullshit you fed me last night? You don’t care about me. I’m _nothing_ to you but an ally—someone who can give you the heads up when shit hits the fan, or one of your nightly discrepancies hits the press. I’m not an idiot—I know you, _I know you.”_  

“And you know what? I hate that, I _hate_ that I know you, because for two seconds—at the Gazette—I thought you were different. You listened, your words, your passion,” Her hands shook. “I—I thought you would listen to me, _hear_ me. I thought for once that maybe, despite my career hitting an all-time low, you understood, you listened, you cared. But, you didn’t, you don’t. To think that I defended you! I defended you!” She gaped, recalling her argument with Danielle. “You are absolutely—oof!”

Bruce slithered his arm across the table to cusp Claire’s chin. He fondled it, his thumb caressing the smooth skin. Then, he smiled. A slow, burgeoning, breathtaking smile.

“You talk too much,” His words were soft. “The resentment you have toward your career is wrong—you will rise, soon.” Claire opened her mouth to speak, but he roved over her. “You’re wrong about me—I do care. I care about this city. I play games, but I always have Gotham at heart. This city means…” The words fell from his tongue, lost elsewhere. His eyes prodded here: desperate, pleading. “Let me show you what I can offer—to Gotham, to you. This isn’t a business deal, Claire—not this time. I want you to trust me.” He closed his eyes. “I’m _asking_ you to trust me.”

“And if I don’t want to?” Claire eyes traced the broad features of Bruce’s face. He was so resilient, so handsome. “Trust you, I mean.”

“Then don’t.”

“That puts a damper in your plans, Wayne. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“Bruce,” He opened his eyes, playfulness lurking in their depths.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Claire said.

“I could say the same to you.”

“You didn’t ask me any questions!”

“They were implied.” He challenged her in earnest, soothing his thumb across her chin once more.

“Fine,” She conceded, her eyes drawn to the tablecloth. “I’ll try. But, only if you promise me one thing.”

Bruce nudged her chin, redirecting her attentions to him. Her eyes roiled, her eyebrows drawn.

“Listen to me, _be a friend to me._ Sometimes I feel so crazy and frustrated and—and—“ Claire’s mouth bobbled uncertainly, words eluding her grasp.

“Alone?” Bruce’s lips crept into a knowing smile. “I have my issues, Claire, don’t doubt it.”

“Obviously,” She snorts. “More detail would be appreciated, though.”

“I’m an acquired taste. I can’t send you running just yet.”

 “For a billionaire who owns hundreds of businesses and real estate, you’re not a very convincing salesperson.”

“I don’t need to be. I have other ways of getting the things that I want.” Bruce hedged that trademark beam creeping into place.

Claire rolled her eyes, and the pair stared at one another a while longer. It was as though they stumbled into one another for the first time. Bruce Wayne and Clarisse West—two unlikely fiends, seeking company with the other. An intimate warmth kindled in Claire’s chest—something new.

Claire’s attention drifted to the tall glass of amber liquid. No beads streamed down the glass, no moisture. She touched a finger to it, and winced at the warmth of the beverage. A Paulaner, was it? She lifted the beverage to her lips with hesitation, cringing as the putrid sensation that whirled about her tongue. She slammed the glass to the table, sloshing the bracken sludge onto the tablecloth.

Bruce, who decided to preview his menu at some point, looked in Claire’s direction and grinned. “You don’t like it?

“Like? I don’t _like_ Corgis. I don’t _like_ romantic comedies. That, Mr. Wayne, is loathing. I loathe that—whatever that is.” She bites her lip, shivered. “Who drinks warm beer?”

“It’s European.” He shrugs.

“What? And this is America, right?

 “Is there something else you’d prefer?” Bruce offered.

 Claire’s eyes caught on Bruce’s drink—a bubbling concoction, with a light color. She reached for it, casting Bruce a mischievous smile.

 _Champagne?_   Claire tipped the liquid into her mouth. The beverage lapped against her tongue pleasantly, absent of all alcohol. It procured a familiar taste—one she savored at home, during Christmas, with Uncle Barry. “Ginger ale? Your ‘regular’ is Ginger ale? How many girls have you fooled with this one, Wayne?”

“Bruce,” He cast her a ironic look.

“You are an expert at avoiding questions, Wayne.” Claire set the glass back to its original place setting.

“I prefer to ask the questions.”

From there on out, Bruce hammer Claire with questions. College, childhood, siblings, Gotham—he all but inquired the world. By the time Charlie struggled through the conversation to take an order, the restaurant was bursting with luxurious guests indulging in the fineries of uptown Gotham. Bruce and Claire, However, indulged in nothing more than the other’s company and a shared glass of Ginger ale.

By 7 o’clock the two had drawn their chairs together, subtly shifting the equilibrium of stuffy room. An acquaintance of Bruce drifted over, leaving Claire to her own devices. She tore into her sirloin, indulged in the morsels on her plate.

It was amazing, she thought, how enjoyable Bruce was. He was earnest, relatable and, much to Claire’s dismay, an amicable human. Her eyes caught on a cluster of women—young, attractive—with their heads bent in her direction, mouth quivering with gossip.

 _I’m on my way to a tabloid favorite,_ She mused.  _Danielle will be sooo proud._

The upper story was crowded. Curtains billowed from the ajar door that lead to the balcony, the cool air drifting soothingly through the room.

In the balcony doorway peeked a head. He had a hooked nose and rotting yellow teeth. He turned to see her, blinked, and disappeared. Claire’s eyes widened, scanned the room. Surely she wasn’t the only one who saw that?

The patrons munched happily, obviously.

_Oh, great. Now I’m hallucinating._

Claire caught sight of the figure once more, breathing a sigh of relief. Her hand lighted on Bruce’s arm, gently tugging his sleeve.

The man had something in his hand—a device twitching between his fingers. A remote?

Bruce excused his attention to Claire, inquiringly chasing her stair to the object of her attentions. “Claire—“ He stopped in his tracks, saw the bulbous green and purple button of the remote.

 “CLAIRE!” He bellowed, and fled his chair as the glass building roared into a parade of glittering confetti.

 

 


	8. Pinch Me

Claire’s body lolled across the floor, shards of glass embedding in her head along the way.

The shards of glass struck her flesh like mosquito bites: sharp, concise. She continued to roll until nimble hands caught her hips. The hands hefted her frame over a set of broad shoulders. Claire tried to discern the figure’s body, but her eyes stung from the smoke that wafted after the explosion.

 Claire cried as she was flung to the floor. Her heated flesh absorbed the gracious solace of the chilled tile. Claire’s eyes struggled to discern the thudding footsteps, the footsteps of the person who’d delivered her from the melee.

Gunshots permeated the air.

Claire shuddered and pressed herself to the ground, isolating herself against the gasps and shrieks, the bullets.

Across the din, hostile in masks stalked the floor, each adorning a large weapon. Claire’s eyes flickered to one of the men: his mask was a white pallor, with Xs cast over silted eye pieces. The man made erratic gesture with his gun, pointed to a dismayed couple in the middle of floor—she remembered them, leering across the table, assessing Bruce and she.

 _Bruce!_ Her mind cried. She tried to discern his face in the midst of the melee. Where had they sat? What direction had he gone? Claire struggled to see, to comprehend Bruce’s absence. She felt like a diver surfacing for air after a grueling plummet into the sea: lungs leaden, breath heavy.

She couldn’t find him, couldn’t see him. Was he taken?

 _You get a date, and this happens—way to go, West. Wait, this isn’t a date._ Claire glared at the floor. _Oh, cut the shit—it’s totally a date._

Well, it _was_.

“No, please! Spare my wife,” Claire’s eyes drew to the couple in the center of the room. The hostile leered at the husband, clutching a woman at arm’s length. “I’ll do anything, please.”

The hostile shoved the woman closer, fondled his chin in her elegant, blonde hair.

“ ‘fraid for you rich bitch, ain’t ya?” His tongue shot our through a hole in his mask, and she lapped up the contours of the woman’s face. The wife wriggled in his grasp, screamed in shrill, shrill pitch.

Claire felt wretched. She laid in her corner, obscured from the melee. She was saved, and forced to watch the vulgarities she was helpless to distract. Claire narrowed her eyes.

_I am not helpless._

Claire wrestled into a seated position, ignoring the wedged pieces of glasses in her side. Her eyes sought a weapon, a tool—any tool.

Every crevasse and expanse of the restaurant was destroyed. Windows, walls, the stairs—all shattered. Claire’s eyes caught on an elongated shard of glass: it was thick, sharp and easily hidden.

Claire clutched the shard, stood and ambled to the center of the room. Around her hostiles were distracted with other trivialities, murmurings of a boss and pickpocketing. Claire stuttered in her movement, impaired by the glass that plagued her body. Yet, she still managed to creep behind the man harassing the woman unseen.

She arched her elbow, and struck fast, the glass puncturing the hostile’s shoulder. He shouted and released his hold on the woman, allowing her to simper away into her husband’s fretful arms.

 _If this isn’t a Cinderella moment._ Claire smiled triumphantly. Her gusto faltered. _Oh, God—I stabbed someone, I stabbed someone!_

A pair of hands seized Claire from behind. The hostile she stabbed stumbled before her, grinning through the pain at the fiend holding Claire captive. Claire bucked against the man, reigniting her pursuits as the barrel of his gun nuzzles in between her abundant breasts.

“Fuck off,” She sneered, ever classy.

 A “tsking” sounded at Claire’s ear, followed by a spurt of maniacal laughter. Claire was shoved into another set of hands, the figure holding her by her forearms at a distance, mindful of the physical boundaries her prior captor ignored.

A tall presence loomed over her. He bent at the waist, and trained his eyes on her body with intrigue.

It was him—the clown, _The Joker._

The clown was white of pallor with a heinous, crimson grin. The grin bedeviled his lips, stretching his features. He was insanity, obscurity—merely looking at him made Claire’s mind roil, skin prickle.

She spat at him, fought against her new captor.

“Why, this kitten has claws, Harley!” The clown mused, summoning a fit female to his side, her body sheathed in black and red.

Harley beamed at her clown, lifted her leg behind her in glee. Harley’s eyes sought the lustful look on the Joker’s face—a look directed toward Claire.

“Hmph!” Harley exclaimed, and crossed her slender arms over her breasts.

Claire avoided the wickedness of the Joker’s eyes. They were abysmal, maddening. His eyes were vacant, devoid of empathy or remorse. He sought no justice for his past, his failures. The man was soulless, heartless. She felt shame toward him—shame and disgust—that Gotham bred such a beast.

The man was a joke, a punchline.

And Claire need punchlines all too well.

 _What? I’m comparing myself to the Joker, now?_ “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“This is no joke, my dear!” The Joker grinned, displaying a ghastly set of yellow teeth. “And I know jokes!”

“—Boss… I started the cash collection on the first floor. The cops are already outside.” One of the henchman said.

“Gotham reaction time sure has improved!” The Joker giggled, snapping his fingers. “Tie ‘em up and call the copter, I’m going to blow this place!”

“And the girl?”

“Hmmmmmm….. I do admire a little excitement, don’t you?” The Joker tapped his pale chin. He leapt to his feet, cried out in glee. “A hostage it is, my dear!”  

“What, Mistah J?” Harley squawked. “She’s uptown trash!”

“Excuse me?” Claire gawked. “That’s rich coming from some saucy bitch who picks up with a Grade-A lunatic!”

Harley’s eclectic blue eyes widened minimally, hands flying to her throat.

“Why—I oughta—“ Harley reached for a giant green and purple hammer. The Joker snatched it back, clicking his tongue.  

“No, Harley! We’ll find a much, much better punishment for her!”

“B-b-but Puddin’…” She pouted, drawing her lips into a pout. The Joker raised his hand over her cheek. “Ah! Y-yes, sir.”

The Joker leaned forward, his face bobbing before Claire’s. He slipped a knife between her breasts, the tip of the blade silting her dress. He continued to press down the knife, running a jagged line down her chest.

“Now, kitten, be a good little girl, shut that pretty little mouth and maybe…” He lowered his voice, his abysmal eyes shifted  briefly to Harley, then back to Claire. “…. Maybe I’ll reward you with a good round of pop-goes-the-weasel!”

Before Claire could laugh, a thud resonated through the floor—a metallic whirl. The Joker cackled and pressed the knife deeper into Claire’s chest, tickling her skin.

Claire caught a mass of black to her left. She swore…

“Ooh Batsy! It’s about time you showed up!”

***

_On a scale of one to damsel, how distressed do I look?_

Claire feasted her eyes on the stealthy figure that sauntered before her. He was menacing, daunting in his execution; each step cautionary, deliberate.

A chill laced Claire’s spine.

Claire fought the onslaught of writer’s sentiment that punctured her thought. The silent eloquence, the stoic divinity. Oh, for all the words she could write, she could only manage two: Hot damn. Claire examined the Bat with new eyes: his chiseled torso, thighs and arms. She longed to touch the rugged sophistication of his jaw, to trace the crease of his cowl.

The Joker dug in the knife, summoning tears of blood to trickle down her chest. Claire huffed in annoyance.

 “Tsk Tsk, Batman!” Joker shrilled. “I’m afraid you’ve come a little late to the party! Not to worry though—we’ve saved you a goody or two! _Oh, Harley_!”

“Yea, puddin’?” His partner marched harpily to his side, beloved hammer in toe.

“Let’s show our guest a little Gotham spirit!”

Harley squealed and dug a hand into the pocket of her costume. With an enthused “Yahtzee!” and a leap, Harley threw a handful of tiny, multicolored gumballs to the floor.

The floor quaked under the havoc of tiny explosions, and Claire was tugged to the balcony, still in the henchman’s grasp. On the balcony, the wind whipped her hair, and a helicopter swiveled above, the Joker’s sinister logo painted on the side.  

The man holding Claire cursed as a batarang engorged itself in his burly chest. Claire jumped back as the electricity seized his body, leaving him to clunk to the floor. 

In moments, the Joker grabbed Claire, placing a gun to her temple.

 “How many more times am I going to have to put up with this bullshit?” Claire cried.

“Come now! Some women liked to be restrained!” The Joker lowers his lips to her ear. “Kinky, wouldn’t you say?”

“Let her go.” Batman stood before the pair, his voice deep and demanding.

“HA HA HA! Seems like someone poured some orange juice in your Cheerios, Batsy! Where’s your sense of spirit?”

“I don’t think ‘spirit’, ‘repulsive’, and ‘homicidal maniac’ can contend against one another on such a small balcony,” Claire jibbed, earning a respective snort from the Dark Knight.  

“AH, that’s all to do with perception, my little flea! You wouldn’t believe just how comforting a little madness can be.” The Joker swept his tongue into the shell of Claire’s ear, nipped the flesh.

At Batman’s grunt, and Joker laughed. “What’s the matter Batman, hm? Jealous? I could always share!” The Joker breathed in Claire scent, tunneled his nose into her hair. “Then again, I was never much good at sharing—couldn’t quite keep my hand out of the cookie jar!” He lifted the gun from her neck, and trailed it gradually over her hips, her thighs. “Isn’t that so, pet?”

While the Batman was in no capacity the Flash, he could _move_. He charged at the Joker, disposing Claire to the side. Discarded on the ground, Claire watched as the Joker and Batman went to arms. Batman’s moves were effortless, graceful; each blow timely, efficient.

Police sirens pierced the air, and the helicopter was filled with henchmen. Batman’s head drew toward the copter. The Joker grinned, his fathomless eyes trained behind Batman’s head.

A thug ambled behind Batman, a knife poised at the junction of the Knight’s neck.

“Batman!”

Claire jumped to her feet and ran toward the thug, shouldering him to the side. She stumbled, whirled and found herself shrouded behind the Batman. He threw smoke bombs into the air, obscuring the Joker from sight. Batman fumbled with his belt and withdrew a device, tapering it to Claire’s waist.

 “Brace yourself.”

“What—“ Claire was thrust into the sky, her limbs flailing in every which direction.

_At this point, I should invest in lessons from Lois Lane._

Desperate to evade her ascension into the dark abyss, Claire managed to finagle herself against a protruding rail at the top of the restaurant. In the dim light of the stars peering through the Gotham smog, Claire’s eyes landed on a cord. Claire sought the cord curiously, her fingers following the ingresses in the material, seeking downward where it attached at her waist.

Claire tapped the sleek device at her waist inquiringly, prompting an abrupt clicking noise. The cord contracted and Claire rose higher, her head clinking against the metal rail of the restaurant.

“UNNESSECARY!” She seethed, a hand seeking the throbbing knot at the top of her head.

“You shouldn’t intervene in matters where you are defenseless.”

Claire’s heart pattered in her chest, and she flung her hands in the air.

“Great,” She said, exasperated. “The great vigilante is conveying life lesson. Right—so tell me, did your parents lend you that advice before or after you thought it respectable to into government property, and tapper thugs to a light that projects across the city:

“It was a statement.” Batman, lingering off to the side, watched Claire, the night obscuring his face.

“Of course it was. Damn convenient, too.”

“Would you rather me set another criminal lose?” He was amused.

“Haven’t you already done that tonight?” Claire gestured pointedly to the helicopter that bounded off into the night before them, bullets whizzing out the sides.

“If you’d have stayed out of the way, he wouldn’t have escaped.” He edged toward her soundlessly, reached out to clutch the object at her waist.

 “So, you would’ve preferred I let that thug run you through? I saved your ass and I—hey!” She wailed, slapping away his hand. “Back off! I—I’ll get myself down.” 

In a disgruntled flurry, Claire hustled to remove the clasp at her waist, wary of the masked fiend that lingered beneath her. The device clicked, and Claire found herself tumbling down on the roof. She threw her elbows over her eyes, bracing herself for the impact that never came.

Batman’s arms cradled Claire against his chest. Claire’s eyes traced the contours of his armor, the Kevlar sculpted and molder her his muscular figure. The suit gave null away, even beneath the layers of protection it offered.

In spite of herself, Claire reached out and fondled the crevasses of his armor, her fingernails grazing against the Kevlar. Batman cleared his throat, and shifted Claire in his arms as he struck a hand to his belt. Claire’s awe shattered.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting us down.”

“I think I saw a set of stairs over leading down over there.” She jabbed a finger to the right, her voice muffled against his armor. “If you could just let me down I’ll—“ A cord lashed out from Batman’s belt and struck the building across the way. The couple barreled through the air, gliding across the line until it tensed. Batman tapped another gadget at his waist and sent them tumbling to the ground, the wire clicking with finality before it stopped just shy of the ground.

 “I’m fed up with your gadgets tonight, Bats, I really am!” She fought out of Batman’s clutches and made to stand on the smooth pavement below them, stalking back toward the restaurant.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Batman’s hand curled around her elbow, prompting her to halt.

“To the police so I can get a ride home,” She gestured to the flashes of red and blue in the distance. She cocked an eyebrow in challenge. “Unless you want to offer up a ride in your snazzy Batmobile?”

“You’re injured.” He tightened his hold on her elbow. “I’m taking you for medical treatment.”

In a childish endeavor, Claire dug her heels into the ground as Batman attempted to hull her in a different direction; a direction that inevitably lead to the Gotham Hospital.

Claire wasn’t having it. “Gee, thanks Dad but I think I can survive on a few bumps and scrapes. Blood builds character, you should know.”

After a few more moments of struggling, Batman lowered to Claire height, bellowed in her face: “You will receive medical attention. The incision on your cheek runs deep, deep enough for stitches.” Pointedly, Batman trailed a finger along the wound. Claire hissed, pulling a hand to caress her wound “You also need clothes, water—you’re coming with me.”

“No, just—hold on!” Claire’s cheeks bore a bright, fiery red. Her head pounded, her limbs ached, and somewhere—somewhere deep within the confines of her mind—Claire felt abandoned, weak. Not only had she succumbed to a Grade A Lois Lane reject, but she’d been hopelessly shrugged off by her date—that was what he wasn’t, right? No, perhaps not. Obviously she wasn’t important enough to see through, to warrant enduring a robbery through. No, he’d left her to be debased and degraded—like common trash; a soda can left adrift in the wind

 “I’m not going anywhere with you or anyone without my consent, do you hear me? If I want fucking medical attention, I’ll get fucking medical attention! Why don’t you just canter off and take care of the menace that’s been torturing this city for years? Or—or catch a bank robber, skim an alley, slum with the police? You—just—you—I—you—Just…. Leave me alone. I’ll find my way home—by myself—and schlep a Band-Aid over my face, alright? Does that satisfy your distress over my health?” Claire fixed him with determined eyes, seeping beneath the fabrication of his cowl, challenging him to apprehend her.

“Fantastic. Now. The Joker went that way—yep, right, right over there, you see?—and I’m going that way,” She made a sardonic show of flailing limbs, and began to limp back the way she came.

Before she could come limp much further, black dashed across her vision. Batman loomed in front of her, raising his cape to drape their forms. A sharp twinge stung at Claire’s neck, an unfamiliar warmth spiraling beneath her skin, flooding her bloodstream. She staggered to the ground, an arm catching her before her body was overtaken by darkness.


	9. Revelations

Batman ambled through the Bat Cave, lifting his cowl off his head as he inspected the resonant dwelling, eyes as fine tuned to the darkness as ever. Bruce shed his armor dutifully, body humming in satisfaction. Adorned in tight clinging Under Armor and low riding briefs, Bruce allowed himself to settle into the hallows of the cave, to listen to the absent thrumming of the waterfall, to observe the subtle shift of the creatures that sought solace on the molted spikes of the earth.

Bruce turned his head to the fluttering that sounded in his ears, and keenly observed his fellow cave mate as he drifted among the rafters—so peaceful, natural, silent.

Weeks flown since Bruce reinstated himself in the Justice League. Since then, he’d been shackled with exceptionally long hour of guard duty at the Watch Tower, falling under the hypnotic white, incandescent glow of the control room. When Bruce wasn’t tasseled to the Justice League, he was slinking through Gotham, or tapping the corporate toll as the sleek, suave Bruce Wayne. He was boggled down, his mind distracted. Perhaps, that was what he needed, what he craved.

Yet, he still missed the steely solitude of his cave, the silence.

 “I thought I heard brooding.” Alfred mused, his shoes tip-tapping on the cave flooring. He held a velvet robe under his arm.

“Alfred,” Bruce gratefully accepted the robe, shuffling his arms into the sleeves.

“And how are we this evening, sir?”

“Like any evening, Alfred,” The Butler sighed and shuffled over to the suit depository to assess the condition of his Master’s “uniform”.

“Not too much trouble then?” Alfred turned to offer Bruce a worrisome glance. “Master Dick passed through this evening and took young Master Parker out for some ice cream. He is quite worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” Bruce said. He fondled the pocket of his robe, grappling the fabric a bit too tightly. “How is he?”

“Oh, I’d say he’d rather chipper, sir—and far too infatuated with Ms. Gordon, I’m afraid. Not that it comes as much of a surprise to you,” Alfred chanced a glance at Bruce, receiving an acknowledging grunt. “He was inquiring on your behalf this evening, sir. I assured him you would answer his call as soon as possible?”

Bruce fought the urge to laugh. Dick knew damn well that he wouldn’t be receiving a call. Bruce avoided his ward for months now, hoping Nightwing’s copious reign over the city would divert his attentions elsewhere—and it worked, mostly.

Alfred  bustled about, chatting good humoredly about little Master Parker and his 3-year-old antics; of demanding calls from Lucius; of Wally’s greetings from his nightly call to with his nephew. “Oh, and Oliver Queen requested you call him; he tried to reach you at erm, work today. He sounded most urgent, sir.”

“Queen?” Bruce hadn’t heard from the man all day. In fact, Bruce couldn’t pin a location on him all night. Off the radar? Bruce smirked. That was his move.

Bruce strode overto the central computer, pushing past the security measures and reaching out to Oliver, his lithe fingers bumbling over the keys.

“I’ll leave you to it then, sir.” Alfred finalized his tidying and abandoned Bruce to his devices. “Good Night, Master Wayne.”

“Alfred—wait.” Both men paused in their steps and made to confront the other, Alfred’s wintery eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Parker—did he mention me today?”

Hearing the privation in Bruce’s voice, the Butler smiled. “Yes. In fact, he was most adamant about your return. He misses you so.”

Assured, Bruce grinned. “Thank you Alfred—for everything.”

“Of course, sir.” He waved frivolously and stalked up the stairs to the cave door. Bruce listened for the resounding thud of the dismissal before connecting to Green Arrow, his thick, cynical voice resounding through the cave.

“’bout time, Bats.”

“What is it, Oliver?”

“Oh—so you’re in a good mood? That’s a first,” Queen snorted contritely. “I picked up something with these protests in D.C—caught some criminal near the Capital loaded with explosives. I got to him before Supes and the rest of the boy scouts could investigate and got some information—these protests are more than just civil unrest, Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyebrows crinkled. “We’ve encountered this before. Don’t you remember the reception to the League expansion?

“Nah—this is different. This man was babbling on about mad men and gee—I don’t know—higher powers? Demons? I think there’s a storm brewing out there, backed by some major players—brainwashing. I think this was a message. ”

Bruce stewed for a moment, mulling over the past week of rallies and gatherings. The reception to heroes was always one of controversy, in one way or another. On one side stood crowds of adorers, eager children toddling about waving flags as trophies, totting around action figures and praise; on the other, raging politicians and unsettled civilians, perturbed by the displays of higher powers, upstanding beings—but weren’t they usually the minority? Figures flashed through Bruce’s mind—evidence, expressions of the civilians he’d saved… Were they always so receptive? So keen on the heroics and daring rescues?

A freckled face dashed across his thoughts—a redhead with a bobbing brow and tattered dress. Bruce’s heart stilled, fluttered, then fell silent again. No—not everyone.

 

“Major players. Corporate backers?” Bruce rubbed a hand along his broad jaw. “No. It must be deeper than that—more than just disgruntled Military investors.”

“We’re talkin’ men with cash—if they unified, they could manipulate enough pockets, especially in the government.” Oliver challenged. “Just look at us. How many minds have you changed through your checkbook, Bruce?”

“It still doesn’t add up. A few disgruntled companies wouldn’t be able to amass enough support to hire unyielding bombers and radicals, nevertheless convince them to go public. Men like that are manipulated, not bought off. No—you’re right, they’d work the government, but quietly. They wouldn’t risk face.” Bruce grunted. “No—someone’s recruiting but it’s not the corporate hierarchy—this is personal.”

“A personal vendetta against the League? Gee, who knew.” Oliver remarked, clawing a smirk from Bruce. “So we narrow perimeters—search our assets.”

“No, that’s impossible. Too many enemies. We’re a mass of super powered mutants contingent on warding off mischief and crime—we could be dealing with any volume of criminals.”

“So… what? We call in the League?” He sounded dubious.

“Hardly.” Bruce said, already making towards his suit chamber. “It’s time to pay an old friend a visit.”

“Old friend, my ass.” Queen grumbled, a shuffling noise echoing through the phone. “Where we goin’?”

“Meet me outside D.C within the hour.”

 With that, Bruce cut the line and bore a somnolent glare to the suit before him.


	10. Fishing

_“Another violent homicide—I just can’t keep up.”_

_“Barry, please—“_

_Claire’s head peeped from around the corner of the kitchen, silently observing her exasperated Uncle, his blonde head bowed over the table, hands pressed flat against the glossy wooden surface. Not far behind her lulled a little Wally, coppery locks askew from sleep._

_“Claire,” He nagged, his grubby hand pulling at her baggy sweatshirt. “I wanna sleep.”_

_“Who’s stopping you?” She retorted sharply, ducking around the threshold as to hide herself from her Aunt and Uncle._

_Wally blew out a sigh. “I can’t sleep if you’re not sleeping.”_

_“Use your imagination, or something—pretend I’m sleeping.”_

_“Yeah but I can’t! Because you’re not—hey, what are you doing anyways?” He shrilled, summoning Claire’s hand to clasp over his mouth, her eyes screwing shut. “Hey!”_

_“Wally—shut up!” She hissed. “ You’re going to get us—“_

_“Caught?” Uncle Barry loomed in the doorway, his eyebrows drawn up pensively. Aunt Iris huffed impatiently behind him._

_With a bashful grin, Claire withdrew from her wriggling brother, securing her hands within the gum wrapper filled confines of her sweatshirt, eyes flickering briefly to the interior of the hall. She pinpointed a scuff mark on the wall, feigning interest in the imperfection. “Has that always been there?”_

_Wally gulped and darted behind Aunt Iris, his body indiscernible as he moved. “I didn’t do anything I swear, Aunt Iris! I saw Claire get up and sneak out here—I was just checking to see if she was okay, I swear!”_

_“Uncle Barry—do you see those scuffs? Weird pattern. You know what—don’t’ worry about it. I’ll just grab some cleaner and scrub it off, see?” She mimicked wiping her hand across the afflicted wall.  “If you’ll just excuse me—“_

_“Hold it, Claire,” Aunt Iris said._

_Claire muttered under her breath and turned about face, her eyes landing begrudgingly on her brother who cowered in Aunt Iris’ arms. What a sellout…  “Did you think I was just going to let you skirt on by? This is the third time this week I’ve caught you sneaking around when you should well enough be sleeping—it’s affecting your grades, not to mention your attitude.”_

_“Arguably, her behavior is as insolent and exasperating as it is any other day of the year.” Uncle Barry added, his voice tinkling with barely contained laughter._

_“Barry!” Iris’s eclectic eyes seethed her husband’s._

_“Alright, alright!” He surrendered his hands to the air. “I’ll deal with her.” He swept a hand through Wally’s locks, and cast Claire a conspirator wink. Before Iris and Wally vanished, her latter was sure to stick his tongue out in a taunting farewell._

_Barry watched his wife retreat and bent his knees, stooping down to his niece’s height. “What’s up, Chink?” Claire bristled at her nickname, swayed uneasily. “You know avoiding this is pointless, I can wait all night.” He flashed that chummy Barry Allen smile, coaxing his niece to face him. “Chink?” Claire’s nose scrunched tight and her eyes began to sting, moisture easing out of her eyes and coursing down her cheeks. “Claire—Claire look at me!” Urgency laced his voice, so abruptly so that Claire did indeed turn to meet her Uncle’s apprehensive stare, his hands latching at her elbows. “Hey, no—don’t do that. I wasn’t going to lecture you—you aren’t in trouble. Claire please, look at me.”_

_Claire shivered and she threw her arms about her Uncle’s neck, sobs racketing her body. Barry shifted his hands to swim in wide, soothing circles about her back, peering down at his typically unreproachful niece. He repeated her name again only to receive a few more wails and wallows before Claire was finally able to muster the strength to reply._

_“I’m so sorry, Uncle Barry, I’m so sorry.”_

_“Hey—don’t apologize—talk to me.”_

_“I know, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—“_

_“Claire, you didn’t do anything wrong—“_

_“I DID! I did!” She severed his words with her own. “ I was never there, I—I didn’t care—I should’ve done more. Uncle Barry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t—I never—“_

_“Chink, what are you talking about?”_

_“I wish I could, Uncle Barry.” She replied, twisting away from her Uncle’s neck, retracting her arms and swathing them around her rattling body. Her voice was solemn, lifeless as she continued, her eyes fluttering closed._

_“Everyday.”_

Claire sprung up in bed, hand clinging to the bed sheets in her fervor. She loathed those dreams—those images of the past that came slinking through her unconsciousness and tainted her sleep. They always held some truth—these horrors disguised as dreams—and it unnerved her terribly. It helped when she was comfortable—at home. These sheets—so silken and smooth—home.

Home—since when were home’s sheets made of silk?

Claire crinkled her eyebrows and opened her eyes. Ornate fixtures covered the room—fixtures she’d never laid eyes on before—and heavy, burgundy drapes swathed the windows, efficiently blocking out the light, save the hints of white-yellow light that peered out from underneath. She rested upon a four-poster contraption of a bed with a thick duvet atop red silk—yes, that was most certainly silk—sheets.

 

 _Certainly an upgrade,_ she mused. That amusement was quickly lost, as she acknowledged just how unfamiliar her surroundings were. _Where the hell am I?_

Her mind flashed to the events the evening prior, her cheeks warming at the memories of Bruce, then paling at the thought of the Joker and him—The Batman—he’d injected her with something, that bastard! Was this his lair?

Her eyes squinted in scrutiny.

 _How disappointing. I was hoping for a menacing cave—or laboratory—something dark and mysterious._ Her eyes slid over to the drapes. _Maybe I spoke too soon on the menacing part—who would buy something that gaudy?_ Claire scooted in bed and shimmed out from under the sheets, gazing down at the long drop down.

“Ah, Miss West,” A distinguished voice cooed from the corner of the room, spurring Claire to fall back on the sheets. “Sincerest of apologies, Miss.”

“I—no—it’s—“ She shook her head. “Where am I?”

“In great company, I assure you.”

The man emerged from the shady edges of the room and presented himself, a smile lighting his lips. He wore a slim tux, the white of his collar defining the silver that nibbled at his mustache and thinning hair. In his arms lay a tray laden with cheeses and fruit, varying in shapes and shades. Claire inched to the edge of the bed, picking at the try as they conversed.

“Not that I strive to interrupt our flow here,” She gestured loosely to the room and the butler. The butler merely smiled, delightedly enjoying a sip of tea. “But, must every answer you give me be so ambiguous?”

The older gentlemen chuckled, setting down his cup upon a saucer and retrieving Claire’s soiled dishes. “To be honest, Miss, I am not sure how much information I am allowed to discern.”

Seemingly on cue, the door creaked wide revealing a dapper, if not slightly perturbed, Bruce Wayne. He cantered into the room, nodding first to the butler and then to Claire, who bore craters into his forehead. So _he_ was behind all this? As if abandoning her last night wasn’t enough?

“Alfred,” He greeted, sharp as ever.

The Butler—Alfred?—nodded.

“Well, I must be off. I shall return to check on you, Miss. Do let me know if you so require anything in the meantime.”

“Thanks… Alfred?” She ventured, assured by his wistful smile. With a final nod, the butler vanished, leaving Bruce and Claire to their devices.

“I should have known,” She grumbled, crossed her arms. “How did you trap me here, anyways? Bribe the EMT? The Joker? Wait—how much am I going for? I’d wager a 5, at least. I am a half decent editor, after all.”

 

He settled her with a weary gaze. “I thought we were past the condescension.”

“Oh, no—this is just the beginning! I charge for condescension sessions and I don’t believe you have the means to pay up—I mean, just look at the repairs your restaurant will requires! So, since I’m feeling generous, I’ll cut you a break and leave now.” Claire tossed the blankets aside and lurched to her feet, clutching at the mattress to stabilize herself.

“Claire, don’t be ridiculous.” Bruce coerced her back into bed, towering over her short stature with his looming one. Claire’s eyes raked across his chest, his torso, his muscles amplified by the slim fit of his collared shirt. Claire fought the blush that crept beneath her cheeks, the fluttering of her heart. She would not allow him the gratification of her humiliation.

“I know this may be difficult for you—listening—but I’m asking you to try,” A sinful smile toys upon his sultry lips. “Hear my side of the story before you form opinions, you’re a journalist, after all—this is right up your alley.”

“Fine.” She conceded. “But I won’t believe you, not a word of it.”

“Right.” Bruce sighed, running a hand along the rumpled sheets of the bed. “When the place exploded, I was thrown across the room. By the time the dust settled, and I could see, that Clown’s thugs brought me downstairs—Bruce Wayne the billionaire, remember?” He winked. “Downstairs—they robbed me, took my cash. By the time the cops came, everyone on the top floor was scattered. It was insanity.” Bruce ran unsteady hand through her hair. “By the time I found you, you were nearly unconscious. The PD took you to the hospital, stitched you up, and I brought you back here.” Bruce cocked his head to the side. “At the hospital you were rambling about something—a hostage, Batman?” 

 Claire blinked, muddling through her bleary thoughts. “I—I met him—Batman. He was there when the Joker he tried to—well, he was an asshole. An absolute idiot with terrible dental work and that woman he brought with him! Batman however…” She drawls, testing the name on her tongue, savoring his unspoken mysteries.

“Oh, you mean the criminal?” Bruce probed, grinning from ear to ear as though he wer nibbling on a private joke. “Did he have fangs? Did you touch them?”

“No! He does not have fangs!” She shrilled, overcome by giggle

Bruce’s eyes warmed at the sound, the exultation crowning the delicious pools of blue. “He was so… grouchy! Don’t get me wrong—I still admire him, but it makes you wonder… How does a man become so… so…” Claire lost the word, wrought the sheets around her finger. “Under all that gruff, there is a man, struggling with… something. I can’t say what it is—but he comes off as a jerk and if he ever manhandles me ag—“ Claire screeched. “THAT BITCH DRUGGED ME.”

Bruce cocked an eyebrow, probed the bruise at Claire’s temple. “The hospital thought you’d most likely hit your head—nobody mentioned as evidence of sedatives in your system.

“What do they know?” She snapped, rioting to her feet once more. “Despite not believing your story, I have compelled myself to invest in your lies. Thank you for…” She waved her hand awkwardly. “If you could point me toward a phone, I’ll call a cab.”

“You should stay.” Bruce remarked coolly, distracting Claire from her pursuit to the door. “Alfred went out to shop for you this morning—clothes, the essentials. You need them.” He clicked his tongue, casting his eyes over her with poorly disguised amusement.

_Why does this feel like an awkward morning-after?_

“How charming,” Claire deadpanned. “But I have work tomorrow and I couldn’t possibly intrude on whatever billionaire playboys do in their freetime. Race yachts, throw parties, check your black-book for heiresses to seduce. Or….” She gesticulated her hands in summative, hoping to fill in the blanks of Bruce’s activities. “You get the gist.”

“I’m not sure I do. We never did get to finish our date. Stay, have lunch—dinner. I’ll give you a tour.”

“Awfully optimistic for you.” Claire said. “Doesn’t this sound a little Fifty Shades of Grey to you? Highly ranked billionaire, ‘rescuing’,” She drawled out the word slowly, sarcastically.  “A lowly writer and inviting her to stay in your penthouse of luxury? When do I get to see the Red Room of Pain or is a different color? Blue? Green? Sapphire? Indigo?”

Bombarded by Claire’s typical ravings, Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if I knew what you were referring to, I would still be confused,” He sought Claire’s hands across the distance that separated them. “Last night, up until the Joker’s interference, was enjoyable. You laughed, held off your more spiteful retorts—it was pleasurable. Look, I’m not going to make you stay, I told you—I’m not the man you think I am.” He smiled, a small sentiment that set Claire’s heart to pieces. “Stay.”

Instinct compelled her to stay. Or, perhaps it was the truth within the rippling depths of blue that sought hers, or the smile that came too easily to her lips the evening past. Claire sighed, nodded.

“Okay, lunch.” She declared. “But I want to drive the Yacht, and I’m paying you for the damn clothes.”

***

A tour and a lunch later, Claire and Bruce found companionship under the poolside gazebo, the unseasonably late summer Gotham chill brushing across their cheeks. The two settled there hours ago, the table between them littered with drinks and pastries—nibbled and disemboweled.

“Claire, I’m telling you, you’ll be obsessed with him now. A masked vigilante saves your life and you aren’t the least bit intrigued?” Bruce mused, his arm draped over the back of his chair.

“No, no, no!” Claire rolled her eyes, slapped the table with her hand.. “I’ve always been intrigued by him—hell, I browse and revise every article ever written about him! Given that, I consider myself immune to his charms. He was way too pushy,” She spread her arms in a grand gesture, sighed. “I prefer my men with a gentle persuasion, cunning.

Bruce snorted, took short pull at his glass. “So that’s why you're so reluctant to my charms.”

Claire’s eyes drifted to the pool to trace the wind as it rippled across the water.

Reluctant to his charms? Hardly.

The fact was, no matter how charming he was, Bruce was a challenge—one that Claire wasn’t certain she could commit to. Or, vice versa. Bruce was used to receiving what he desired, reaping gratification on any demand. And Claire was not easily bought, subdued. Bruce would grow weary, tired, and his eye would stray. Claire didn’t have the time.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe, I prefer you better as a friend, Mr. Wayne.” She said. “It would be better for you—a friendship. I could give you a head’s up before your laundry aired to the public, give you PR guy a break.”

Bruce chuckled, lifted an eyebrow. “Friends in high places?”

“Hardly,” Claire smiled. “Who would’ve thought I’d store a billionaire in my back pocket? All I need now is the key to the city!” She squinted. “Scratch that—I already have it, I have you.”

Bruce’s grin faltered, replaced with somethings soft, intimate. Before Bruce could reply, Claire was to her feet, standing near the pool, her cheeks bright as a candle.

_Friend zone him, sure—and say something like that? You’ve lost it._

Bruce followed her slowly. He stood behind her, hands ensnared in his pockets. He regarded her worriedly, curiously. “Claire—“

“I don’t always mean the things I say, you should know that,” Claire pressed a hand to her chest, fingers probing along the mending skin of her collarbone. “I’m not used to company.”

Bruce chuckled—a contrite, lifeless notion. “Neither am I.”

“It gets tiring, living alone—of course, I have my brother. He’s… Well, there’s no words to describe him,” She turned slightly, her eyes hedging the outline of Bruce’s figure. “We were raised by my uncle—my brother and I—and after he died, well, I went to school and Wally followed. It was… sudden.” Claire fought the emotion that seared her mind. “Forget it, you don’t need to hear my sob story.”

Bruce reach out to Claire and turned her in his arms, his blue eyes peering into her soul. They were solemn eyes: soulful, longing, writhing. “No—I want you to tell me. Everything.” He leaned forward, his nose skimming hers. “I lost my parents.”

Claire, miffed by the proximity, winced. A memory—a newspaper. She remembered his parents, the prominent, wealthy Waynes.

“Your parents never wanted to leave you,” she said. “Mine never gave me a chance.”

“A mistake,” Bruce assured, a wistful smile treading across his face. “You, Claire, are a stunning woman.”

Claire pulled away from his gaze, stepped back in his embrace. She laughed nervously. “Friends, remember? Don’t make me call my brother to put you out.”

Bruce simply walked closer. “I'd like to meet him someday.”

“Oh, Wally?” Claire continued to walk backward, her eyes bright. “Whenever—he can be here in a flash.”

“It’s a date,” He said.

“Yeah, because that worked out so well the last time,” Claire rolled her eyes. “Besides, friends don’t have dates.” She couldn’t disguise the happiness in her eyes, the contentment. “Why do I get the feeling our friendship can only lead to disaster? We should cut the whole thing off now, save the wreckage.”

“Who could predict the future, Claire? After all, you are the epitome of unpredictability—I wouldn’t count of off just yet. I trust you,” He said.

“I never said you were smart,” Claire stumbled as she moved away from Bruce, her foot catching on the ledge of the pool. Bruce’s arm, still around her waist, barely tightened in enough time to prevent her fall. “See this—this is what I’m talking about!”

Bruce grinned. “What? This? Maybe you need a wake-up call.”

“Like hell I—BRUCE, NO!” With a startled scream, Bruce propelled the pair into the pool, a stream of water blooming in their wake.

***

“The Capital?” Arrow grumped, arms crossed as he followed Batman through the shadows of the nation’s capital, hood drawn over his head.

Bruce crept into a crevasse to avoid a patrol, fleeing into a hall lined with offices. Before long, he paused outside of a grandiose office, twisting the handle to assure the room was locked. He pulled out a gadget and tinkered with the touchpad adjacent the door, smirking into the darkness as the door slid open.

Green Arrow and Batman cantered into the office, dimly illuminated by the skyline illustrated through the window. Arrow observed the Bat as he crept along the outskirts of the office, swiveling around to face the desk and began the tedious process of hacking into the government encrypted computer.

Within moments, Batman had all but devastated the coding and launched into his search, earning an appreciative whistle from his partner. “What was that? 6 seconds? That has to be a record for you.”

“Try 4.” He replied, monotone. Arrow shook his head and peered over the Bat’s shoulder.

“Who’s computer is this, anyways? Anyone we know?”

Batman snorted. “Who don’t we know in the Government?”

“True.” Arrow amended, tensing as a squat silhouette bulked in the doorway. He sought his bow immediately, stringing it with a gilded arrow. Batman shirked off the presence, choosing instead to dwell in the files.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you connected the pieces,” A gruff, snarky voice said. “It certainly took you long enough.”

“I was playing my cards, had to be sure.”

“Good to know some things never change.” The silhouette slowly emerged, breathing detail into the African Woman who stood before them, hands on her hips.

“Amanda Waller.” Arrow chuckled. “Somehow it always leads back to you.”


	11. Rapture

So, what information do you seek?” Amanda Waller huffed, folding her arms over her swollen bosom.

Batman smirked, lifting his eyes to the menacing woman in front of him. Her prowess oozed from her impassive stance, wrinkled face—ever hassled, ever troubled.

“So much ambiguity in one room,” Green Arrow moved, absentmindedly toying with the tip of his arrow. “You know what we want—let’s hurry this along, shall we?”

Waller lifted an ebony brow in his direction, observing the archer timidly. Her gaze quickly flicked to the Dark Knight.

“Birds of a feather certainly do flock together. Nevertheless…” She embarked toward the desk where the heroes loomed, retrieving a key from her sleeve. “I’ve had to shine a few shoes and close a few doors to keep this secret, but knew you would visit me soon enough.”

Intrigued, Green Arrow lurched forward, leaning over the Bat to inspect the file Waller fanned out in her hand. She tossed another handful of documents on the desk.

 “We got the clown to talk,” she said. “That man,” Her pudgy finger tapped a photo accompanied by a descriptive file, depicting a trim man with a gun.

“Matthew Strombol?” Arrow squinted, his brows drawing over his mask. “That’s the man I detained a few hours ago. A loon—that one.”

Waller shot him a weathering look and returned to her briefing. “Yes, well, that _loon_ is a former terrorist—best in his profession. We pulled some records, turns out he was hired by Lex.”

“Luthor?” Batman said.

Waller nodded. “Lex affirmed as much. Don’t bother with interrogating him—he’s protected.”

“An inside job,” Batman murmured, tapping the arm of the chair in thought. “Lex is buying time.”

Waller inclined her head to indicate the photograph. “Accomplices, extremists, terrorists—all detained from threats of arson, murder, big names on the FBI’s hit list. Strombol is in interrogation now. I doubt we’ll extract much from him.”

“Still doesn’t explain how a man so academically inclined was raving on about demons. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen some shit, but this man was completely checked out. A guy like that doesn’t fit on Luthor’s roster,” Arrow said.

“Maybe that’s the point—maybe there is not point—look, I don’t intend to understand the mind of Lex Luthor’s. My job is to illuminate the threat he poses to this country,” Waller said. “He’s breeding a  terrorist group, self-proclaimed as ‘LOF’.”

“League of Freedom.” Batman interpreted. “The annihilation of supernatural beings. Something similar happened in the 90s on a much smaller scale.  Last I recall, it was backed by major corporations.”

 

“Exactly.” Waller drawled. “Luthor will give anything to eliminate the Justice League—even allying with the Joker.” Waller looked pointedly at Batman. “You’ve been played—they want you out of the League.”

Batman brought a hand to his lips. “Does the President know? Superman?”

“You’d be the first.” Waller’s eyes flicked up to Green Arrow, who gawked in silent disbelief.

“How much longer on the Clown’s sentence?”

“Long enough.” Waller clicked her tongue. “A beneficiary tried to bail him out a few months ago, we shut it down once, I’m not sure we can do it again.”

Green Arrow grunted. “And when he is released? What happens next?”

“That depends,” Waller mused, scooping up the spilled innards of the file and storing it back in the drawer.

“On?” Arrow supplied.

“How determined Bruce Wayne is to reclaim what he has lost,” Her muddy eyes drew to Batman, softening slightly.

Batman stiffened and stalked to the window. “I’ll be in touch.” With a brisk influx of wind and the chilling remnants of grief, the Dark Knight vanquished.


	12. Wandering Intentions

Claire waited on the outskirts of Gotham City Park, one hand in her pocket while the other positioned a phone at her ear. It was quite a find—her new phone. The latest in its class—pristine, simplistic, sleek—and it triumphed her old phone in every capacity. She was skeptical of the price, and such to Bruce Wayne, who'd sagely vowed to accompany her on her shopping endeavor. He shoved her worries off easily, sliding up to the counter. It was several minutes later the salesman waved Claire over and unveiled his asking price.

“$30?” Claire said, incredulous

“It’s on special today, ma’am. Black Friday.”

“Is that so?” Claire hummed. “Interesting since it’s Tuesday…. September 1st.” Claire shot Bruce an incriminating look. Bruce shrugged, gesturing to the phone on display.

“Sales lower when the market is hot,” Bruce noted, lifting an eyebrow. “Take it from a man in the business.”

10 minutes later, Claire had cautiously pulled away from the mall kiosk, scribbling a mental note to chastise Bruce on the unsubtle cash exchange as she strolled away.

 

Two months later, the phone was still a marvel to behold. Claire wrestled her coat closer in the frigid December air, rocking on her heels as her brother frothed through the phone, regaling his League adventures and recent scientific marvels.

“Your headline crashes through the Gazette on more than one occasion,” Claire said, tracing her boot into a patch of dirt. “Your expansion has a lot of people panicking, Wally.”

 It was inevitable—the unrest the cornered the Justice League. What started out as a self-sufficient bundle of 7 was slowly developing, forming into a cohesive, super-powered mass.

“You sound like you’re one of them,” Wally accused, the slightest twinge of sorrow painting his tone.

“I’m a cynic. I live in a city where one hero reigns supreme, a man many people still accuse of being a menace, a vigilante. It doesn’t matter how many lives he saves, he’ll still be feared.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have any powers,” Wally said. “Besides, Bats has been the most beneficial to our plight—he wants us to expand.”

“Maybe that’s what evokes the fear. If a single man can triumph aliens and criminals without heat vision or—I don’t know—manipulating _the earth_ , what’s to stop hundreds of others? What if we all became homespun heroes?” Claire nibbled her lip, replaying the same argument that rivaled in her mind since her encounter with the Dark Knight so many months ago. What compelled a man to needlessly sacrifice his identity for the sake of a city? Why show such mercy to criminals after vowing their extinction?

 

“Weren’t you in love with Batman like two weeks ago? Ya know, if it means that much to you, I could probably slip him your number.”

“I’d rather not slip my number to a man who prowls the night dressed as a Bat.”

“I dunno, Claire.” Wally laughed. “Some women really dig roleplaying. We could set you up with a mask and everything.”

“Wally, do you hear yourself?!” Claire exclaimed.

Several park goers turned an assessing glance her way. She adverted her gaze and shook her head, unable to prevent the soft giggles that coalesced from her lips. “Why do I have the sneaking suspicion that you speak from experience?”

A throat cleared at Claire’s shoulder. Bruce Wayne stood arduously beside her, his crystalline irises prying away the scarce warmth that swathed her body. Claire paused under his scrutiny, allowing her brother’s voice to roll in one ear and out the other, bewitched by the stunning man before her. His lips were supple and lively despite the frigid conditions surrounding them, drawn into a friendly smile. He lifted his hand to reveal two Styrofoam cups, steam billowing from the silted lids.

In spite of herself, Claire grinned—the same ruthless, unabated facial exultation that revealed itself in Bruce’s wake. Her emerald eyes crinkled, eyes nearly dissipating under the action. She lifted a gloved finger and polished off the conversation with her brother. With a brisk good-bye, she hung up the phone and thrust it into her pocket, eagerly seeking the steaming cup of deliciousness before her.

Claire descended upon the cup, her lips greedily seeking the slit and tilting back, the savory, sweetness of dark hot chocolate bombarding her tongue.

“I’ll take that as a ‘thank you’.” Bruce said, raising his own cup to his lips.

“Take it as you will, Bruce. You always do,” Claire sighed, detaching herself from her treat. “How much do I owe you?”

“Right.” Bruce ahead, encouraging the pair to walk. It had become a weekly tradition for the two—lunch spent walking through Gotham Central Park. Rain or shine, Bruce and Claire cantered amongst the citizens of Gotham—the former beaming and amiable, the later disgruntled and irritable from an impossibly enduring morning at the Gazette.

“One day I will pay,” Claire remarked as they strolled, catching Bruce’s eye.

She was met by a booming laugh—the laugh cascaded around them, danced through the air. Claire smiled dreamily, relishing the wholesome sound to her core.

 “Not on your life,” Bruce said. “Anything substantial whirling through the Gazette?”

“What you really man to say is: ‘Is there anything about me that I should know about?’ “ Claire said, running a gloved hand through her wind manipulated hair. “To which the answer is, no. You can tell your PR guy to take a breather—he’s safe for the holiday season.”

“Thank God for small miracle,” Bruce mused, his gaze coming to rest on the redhead beside him. “Speaking of the holidays, you never R.S.V.Ped to the Christmas Gala.”

Claire rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. “Why do you insistent on calling it a Gala? It’s like passing off SeaWorld as a sophisticated petting zoo. To which, a) you can only pet the dolphins and stingrays and b) it’s a miserable understatement. You might as well dub it as ‘Bruce Wayne’s Holiday Extravaganza, featuring the city council and copious members of Congress.”

“I must’ve missed the part where you answered my question.”

“Look, I just conspired that entire reference and that’s the—seriously?—the only thing you absorbed from that?” Claire tossed up her hands in exasperation, her cup clamoring to the ground.

She cursed and hastily bent to save her beverage, falling to her knees in the process.  Bruce knelt beside her, seeking her hands as they scurried after her cup’s remains. His hand brushed hers, agile fingers silencing her flighty exasperation. Even through the wooly sanctity of her gloves, Claire could feel the warmth of his touch.

 Her eyes flooded to his, her heart bobbing in her chest. Bruce smiled, extending a hand to brush away the haphazard strands of red that managed to escape her cap. Her eyes fluttered of their own accord, a meager sigh escaping her lips. Catching her mistake, her eyes sprang open, only to be met by Bruce’s unequivocally assessing stare.

The two inclined their heads together, a proverbial cord tethering them together. Bruce lifted a hand to caress her chin. Claire thoughts rushed into her chest, her heart. He was so ideal—so untouchable.

Her mind flashed to their attempted date months ago. Their connection was raw, tangible. His mysterious, unsubtle demeanor rattled her inhibitions, occupied her mind. Oh, she was meant to be with Bruce…

_As friends._

The chilled wind gusting by them doused Claire consciousness, prompting her to disentangle herself from his touch.

_Friends, only friends. It’s bad enough that you befriended the billionaire jackass of Gotham. Let’s not complicate your life any further._

The two rose, Bruce clutching the spilled cup. He sighed and offered Claire his own, blue eyes confirming the deep rejection he reaped from Claire’s detachment. “Here, you need it more than I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bruce smirked, nodded his head down the street. “You actually work for a living. If I recall from your string of accusations, my career involves ‘yachting’ and ‘unnecessary visitations to ye local pub’.”

“I said the latter in a fetching Irish accent.” Claire correctly, unable to escape her creeping amusement.

“I doubt I translate well in Irish,” He said. “Think on the Gala, will you?”

Claire opened her mouth, but was halted by Bruce’s dismissive hand. “I meant think not ‘thought’. It’d be beneficial for you to break free of that suffocating office of yours.”  

“Cubicle,” Claire said.

“Cubicle,” Bruce amended with a wink.

The two engaged in a monetarily stalemate, the one assessing the other.

“Fine—I’ll think about it,” Claire said, pointing a finger. “But no promises.”

Bruce displayed a panty ensnaring leer, knocking his shoulder into Claire’s. “C’mon—I’ll buy you lunch.”

Claire grinned at him, making for the hot dog cart in the distance. “Not a chance!”

 

 


	13. Broken Wings

“Joyce? Hello?”

 Claire stumbled into the modern room, catching her reflection in one of the many glass walls in Wayne Tower. Claire fiddled with the hem of her cardigan, searching for Bruce’s secretary. A woman in her late thirties, Joyce was a talker. No, seriously, _the talker._ Each time Claire visited, Joyce regaled with tales of children and husbands, the domestic life of a modern woman. She was amicable, warm—and Claire reveled in such affection.

Claire caught Joyce’s computer screen—black, empty. 

_Go Joyce—you finally ditched this place before 10._

Claire herself was ecstatic she had managed to escape early—on a Friday night, no less. Claire pawned her work on the new intern, resting assured that should any mistakes befall the morning’s issue, he would be responsible. The intern was Danielle’s fledgling, after—she must’ve taught him to browse through a few measly editorials.

Days before the Wayne Christmas Gala, Claire stood. She grappled a designer magazine in her fist, balanced a bottle of wine in the crook of her elbow. She was going to do it—concede to his dreadful ball—and she wanted to watch him revel in his well-fought victory.

 “Since I’m assuming no one’s here, I’m sure you won’t mind if I just—“ Claire imitated a swopping motion with her fingers, gesticulating down the hall that lead to Bruce’s office. “No security breach—just an innocent journalist.”

Claire whistled “inconspicuously” and slinked down the hall, her flats thrumming against the marbled floors. She tidied her dress as she approached the ominous ebony doors that lead into Bruce’s penthouse of an office. She her hands over her straying auburn locks, desperately attempting to cure her discombobulated appearance.

 _It shouldn’t matter._ She begrudged herself. _It’s just Bruce._

 Obstinate, infuriatingly handsome, vexing Bruce—just Bruce.

Claire snorted. _Just Bruce._

Summoning her wits, Claire thrust open the doors, babbles springing from her lips.

“So, I know you’re going to be surprised, mouth agape, eyes wide. ‘Claire, I thought I told you to phone ahead before you visit?’ Well, let the record show that a) I called your cell twice and considering how tightly fused that thing is to your head, I’m appalled you didn’t answer. Joyce wasn’t at reception either so, calling her was a bust. You know, you should give her a raise one of these days—classy woman, adore her—which, as we both know, is not a compliment I issue lightly.”

Claire maneuvered the bottle of wine from the crook of her elbow

“Oh, and b) Spontaneity can be considered a spice of life. That should be a quote—we could plaster it on a plaque in your office, hang it on the wall that isn’t glass. Just a suggestion And I bought Moscato—sinfully cheap Moscato—which, of course, deems it worthy of consumption. You could use a break from—“

Claire’s hand flew across her lips, her fingers unwinding from the bottle. The bottle clattered to the floor, shattered against the marble.

Bruce stood before her desk, every bit an Adonis. Where the sculptured curves of his derriere curved upward, lead to a muscle rippled back, grazed with numerous, puckered afflictions. Light scars danced about his shoulders, sung at the nape of his neck.

Claire made toward him slowly, mouth agape, desire unfurling around her like large, lustful wings.

_Just Bruce._

Hesitant emerald orbs flicked over to the crux of his back, four small incisions gleaming with crimson. Without thought she touched them, tentatively sought his injured flesh.

“I really _don’t_ want to know why you’re standing nekkid in your office, but how in the hell did you manage this?”

Bruce, seemingly oblivious, span around. His pupils her blown wide—lustful, devouring. Claire noticed that look—the primitive longing—from many a romantic novels.

“Claire?” Bruce said, the brash baritone of his voice distracting from the obvious bewilderment of his features. His eyes drifted to the floor, surveyed the shattered remains of the wine, then ventured back to the woman before him. “What are you doing here?”

Claire’s heart thudded in her chest. She tried to ignore the little space between them, to ignore the imaginary sparks that funneled and flopped in her stomach. She focused on his eyes—her eyes that didn’t have abs, extremely _sculpted_ abs—could you even _have_ that defined of abs?

“What? You’re not happy to see me?” She chuckled nervously. “Not that you would be—I didn’t mean it like—but you’re like this and…. And you’re naked—did you know that you’re naked?

“Bruce? “The water is ready—oh!” A lump clogged Claire’s throat. Her eyes caught on a busty brunette, her long legs crossed sensually over one another, beckoning Bruce forth. The woman crossed her arms to cover her chest, whimpered.

Unbidden tears stung at the corners of Claire’s eyes. Her hands fluttered to her chest, beseeching air to placate the wretched sting that resonated there. Betrayal, devastation—how could he? Cheat? Had he truly cheated? They were friends, after all. She’d made it plain enough that she didn’t want a relationship, hadn’t she? He was her friend— _just a friend._

Their Friendship was sacred, indestructible—or, it was.

Claire turned to run, foiled by the vise-like grips on her forearms.

“Claire—don’t run from this—“

She lurched back, stumbling and crashing into the scattered shards of the wine bottle. The fragments dug into her thighs as she scrambled to her feet, blinded by tears. Sobs heaved her chest.

She hated him, hated herself—she needed to run, flee.

And so she did.

***

A regular night on the streets of Gotham was precarious. Yet, it held little to that of a Saturday night. Claire shuffled along the streets of town amid strangers, giggling at the atrocious irony that was her life.

 

“I told myself,” She bellowed into the night, clutching a bottle of wine to her chest. The contents of the bottle swiveled uneasily, following Claire’s static movements. “I told you, Claire! One of the first men to ever ask you on a date was a billionaire—a billionaire—and you couldn’t see the fallacy in that?” She chortled once more, lifting the near empty bottle to her lips. “Friends—friends! As though that could ever be enough!”

Claire clumsily lowered herself to a random street curb, sighing at the coolness of the cement. She heard a brief shuffling behind her, a crisp swathing of air lifting the sweat dampened hair from her neck.

“If you want to kill me, you’ll have to do better than that!” She collapsed backward, sprawling to meet to stranger behind her. “Heeeelllllooooooo, is it me you’reee looooooking for?” She hiccupped. “Wanna drink?”

The Batman lowered himself into a crouch, inhaling the putrid stench of alcohol that wafted from Claire’s breath. “No, I think you’ve already taken my share.”

“Suit yoursellfff, loooooooooooossserrrrr.”

Batman reached down gingerly, jostling Claire into an upright position.

“Hey! Watch it!”

He grunted, roused the journalist to her feet. Claire swiveled and swirled, bracing her sweaty palms against his chest. She danced a finger along the divets in the Kevlar. “Ooohh, Do you work out often?”

A miniscule smirk lightened his lips. “Occasionally.”

“Good job,” Claire wailed. “It must be great being you. Saving people, bashing in criminal skulls, skirting outside the law…. I wrote a story about you once—after you saved me. It lightened the severity of—of” she gestured wholly to his presence, limbs cantering in varying angles and directions. “—this.”

He grasped her forearms lightly, hands moving to ghost down her sides, preventing her from collapse.

“I never publish it though—too me, ya know? Not enough of what people want to read. People, people, people…. Do you every get tired of people? One day they loathe you, and the next… they scream your praise. How does that make you feel?”

The Batman said nothing, only stoically made to clutch a device along his belt. He turned slightly, his eyes lighting upon a rooftop in the distance.

“Batman, please,” Claire drunkenly slurred, a quivering whisper. “Please, talk to me—don’t leave me. Please, stay. Stay with me. Don’t—don’t  leave. Uncle Barry left—my mother left—father left—and now B-Bru…” She raised a hand to her eyes, desperate to wipe away the unbidden emotions that drifted down her cheeks. “Not you, too. Please, not you, too.”

Batman froze, the white of his eyes glittering in the flickering lamppost beside them. “I’m going to get you home, Claire.”

“You know me?” She rasped between her tears.

Without so much as a single glance, the Batman rounded on his heels, his arms fastening around Claire’s waist, crushing her close to his chest. Retarded in her liquor induced stupor, Claire gasped. His hands interlocked at the nape of her neck, and sought the wild, haphazard strands of red. He lured her closer still, sewing up the distance between them with the brash salutation of his lips.

She whimpered into the kiss, keened against his embrace. As quickly as he lured her closer, Batman pulled away.

“I know everything about you,” he whispered.

A sharp pinch beckoned at Claire’s neck. She gasped, lulled into darkness.

***

Bruce clicked the key on his remote to summon the Batmobile, observing the wreckage of the LexCorp Lab building. Someone beat him to the punch, scattered his investigation. Lex was partnered with someone strong, someone who yielded power. Bruce stared into the flames, sweat dripping down his face, under his cowl.

Someone anticipated his movements—and Batman vowed to crucify whomever it was.

 

The next morning, Bruce Wayne settled at his desk, delved into the sketches Lucius scattered on the glossy wooden top. New plans, new devices—more flexibility.

“Mr. Wayne, sir—phone for you,” Joyce peered into his office door, a kindly smile lilting her lips.

Bruce sighed, lifted a blinking phone to his ear, forced a smile. “Wayne, here.”

“Stay of it, Bruce,” Lex Luthor’s crass voice sung through the line. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Bruce crumpled one of the papers on his desk, barred his teeth. “Who’d you pay off this time, Lex? I want a name. Now.”

“I tire of hunting the League,” Lex said, his voice darkened. “I’m protecting myself this time.”

“Through the League of Freedom? Spare me,” Bruce said.

“Save yourself, Bruce. From one billionaire to another, I’d settle my assets. He’s coming—he won’t entertain mercy.”

“Who?”

Lex chuckled darkly. “Now, Bruce, you know how these things go. I warned you, that’s the best I can do.”

“What’s your angle, Lex?”

“Consider it securing an asset—we were business partners at one point, yes?”

“There it is,” Bruce snorted. “If you think I’ll reinvest in your homicidal inventions Lex, you’re insane.”

“I have a feeling you’ll be reconsidering. Soon. You know where to find me,” Lex clicked off, leaving a muted buzzing in his wake.

Bruce crushed the phone in his fist.

Joyce peered into his office once more, her face hinted with green. “Mr. Wayne—I—“ She oogled him with wide, frightened eyes. 

Bruce leapt to his feet, cradled Joyce under a muscular arm. “Joyce, what’s wrong?” His eyes narrowed as another figure cantered into the office: slim, lithe, with ebony hair and twinkling blue eyes. “Dick?”

“The hospital called,” Dick fumbled with the phone in his hand, eyes wandering to the floor. “There’s been a change.”

 


	14. Upon My Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nanannanannanannanannannanananana... UPDATE!

_Write it._

_\--B.M_

Claire’s eyes devoured the sentiments that drifted across the page. Oh, how long she devoured those words? Hours? Minutes?

Her mind ambled through the iridescent lights of her bedroom, distracted by the agonizing humming through her thoughts. She thrust her head into her hands, letting her note fall to the bed.

“Who signs a letter B.M?” She croaked, her eyes fluttering shut. “Bowel Movement… Really, Bats?”

Claire sat with a pile of papers askew her bed, nestled around the sheets that lay about her waist. She stumbled to retrieve them the moment she dissected the note. Despite her wretched hangover, Claire knew Batman’s words held merit, truth. She rifled through her memories, through the scrawling of time passed. Stories of a Bat---some from college, others from her first few months at the Gazette—surrounding her knees, drowning her in their pleas.

 _Write me!_ They screamed. _Use me!_

Claire grabbed the laptop idling at her feet, wrestled it into her lap. She settled her glasses onto her nose, and massaged her aching temples.

She knew the tale she wanted to spin—the words that would enlighten Gotham, and cure the bout that plagued the city. Batman had to be cleansed, revered—his name brought into the light, free of villainy and city intervention.

Claire inhaled a deep, listless breath.

She lowered her sights to her keyboard and tip-tapped in the header that she would impose on the Gazette—the fire Gotham could never fan out:

**UPON MY KNIGHT.**


	15. New Eyes

“Mr. Wayne, we can’t proceed without your permission, sir.”

Walls. Solitude. Conformity.

She loathed that.

Bruce’s eyes flickered along the white tiles of the hospital, craving an imperfection to reveal itself—anything—anything that reminded him of her.

“Mr. Wayne, sir?

A brown speck, was it? He scrunched his eyes. Freckles. Yes, that was much like his Claire, his love. An imperfection—his imperfection.

“Bruce!” Dick grappled his mentor’s forearm. Blue eyes sought Bruce’s, the edges laced with cerise. Bruce couldn’t help but admire how profound the color was, how stunning. Stunning, unique—like his Claire. “Bruce, you _have_ to make a decision.”

Bruce scanned his surroundings: the hospital bed, a raging monitor, a distressed audience—Dick, Damian, the cache of nurses and doctors that scurried to and fro, needles burdening their fingers as they struggled to taper down the ricocheting body on the bed.

Damian grit his teeth, thrust his face in front of Bruce’s. “You need to end this! Now!”

Silence.

Damian tossed his arms over his head, wrought his fingers through his coarse, ebony mane. “Dick—do something!”

“Don’t you think I’ve been trying?! Every damn person in this room has been trying!”

Screams erupted from the hospital bed—shrill, unearthing. It rattled the room, crept into Bruce’s bones.

“Well, maybe you should try _harder!”_

“He’s your biological father!” Dick snapped. “If anyone holds any weight here—“

The door to the medical room burst open, Wally West striding through. His eyes were bloodshot, his fingers warped into talons, razors. The trademark jest in his eyes absent, the usual light diminished.

He turned to the doctor, his voice serene, bathed in a practiced rigidity: “Do it now.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You don’t have the authority to issue that command.” The doctor slithered up to Wally’s side, wincing at the struggles of the patient behind him.

“I am her brother and guardian, I’m responsible for here. Please, end this.”

“But, Mr. Wayne—“

“My sister has suffered enough!” Wally snapped, tears swirling down his cheeks.

The screams grew louder. Wally winced.

The doctor cast a weary glance to Bruce and turned back to Wally, thrusting a clipboard in his hands.

“Sign it, quickly!”

With a speedy flourish, the act was finished. The doctor scurried over to the hospital bed and readied the release of his patient. He clasped the IV in his fingers, sought to dislodge it from his patient’s arm. A nurse reached for the monitor, her fingers mashing the final button.

Bruce winced, lurching to his feet. “Step away from her!”

Dick and Damian sought to wrangle their father, slamming him against the wall.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” His savage eyes smoldered with rage, desperation. She was strong enough—she would survive. Did they not know who she was, to whom she belonged? The promises they’d made?

The body on the bed stilled.

A final beep seized the room—withstanding the eerie silence.

Damian and Dick released Bruce, eyes cast to the ground.

Bruce fell to his knees.

“Why?” His hands crashed against his face. His words were whirled between sobs, humorless guffaws that seized his very existence: “Not her—not her! Claire, don't leave me--“

“Daddy?”

In the doorway loomed a distraught Alfred, his hand raised to his lips. Beside him, stood a forlorn toddler. The toddler sought the patient on the bed, squinted his eyes.

A contagious smile streamed across his face, the sun rising in his eyes. He fumbled over to the bed, nearly tripping over his own untied shoelaces.

“Mama! I’m back!” He rattled the sheets. “I see you today! See me? Mama, it me!”

Wally hefted Parker into his arms, tucked him into his shoulder.

"She sees you, Parks, she sees you."


	16. Moving Day

“If it ain’t West—here to steal another kiss, are ya?”

Grotesque kissing sounds pervaded the air—sloppy, wet. Claire rolled her eyes, and set to examining the synchrony of red, white, and blue before her. The cops tapered off the block as the Batman fought his battles amid a crumbling building, immersed in flame.

Claire edged towards the cautionary tape, clutched the notepad in her hand.

Her coworker shimmied up beside her, flicked the yellow strip of tape with his finger. “You interfering with my stories is getting real old, West.”

Claire eyed the man beside her indifferently—short, sandy hair, warm brown eyes, dimpled chin. He was childlike, randy, and utterly obnoxious.

It’d been a month since Claire had published UPON MY KNIGHT. Danielle reveled in its imminent success, the global tremor it caused. Claire’s secession to fame was expedient, profound. She reveled in the light; shone to every newspaper, editorial, and reporter in the U.S, even Lois Lane offered her words of praise.

From her newfound fame rose her much anticipated promotion. Each week Claire composed a new piece about the Dark Knight, following his antics as he soared through Gotham. She wielded her words; devising a hero that loved, suffered and endured the withstanding tragedy his profession provided.

Who was the man beneath the mask—the man who dared defy the rules of society?

“If I bother you so much, you should seek out different stories,” Claire squinted into the melee of firefighters. Sweat probed at her temples, spurred by the onslaught of flames.

“And miss a decent headline? Not chance—wherever the Bat shows, chaos follows.”

“Chaos often hides itself beneath the guise of justice.”

“If I didn’t know any better Claire, I’d say those little articles of yours reflect some personal agenda, hm? Dying for a kiss yourself?”

“Danielle’s lackey or not, Zac, I won’t hesitate to punch another hole in that deplorable face of yours.”

“All by yourself? Or through the assistant of the hooded maniac of yours?”

Claire smirked, flashed him a wink, whispered: “Try me.”

***

Claire bustled through the halls of her new apartment complex, juggling boxes on her arms. She shouldered open the door to her apartment, thrust the boxes to the floor.

Her eyes danced along he bare walls, snagged along the sparsely furniture corners and wide, expansive windows.

She spread her arms wide, throwing a wild cheer into the room. “FINALLY!”

“Need help with the rest?”

Claire squeaked, threw herself against a wall. Her head thudded precariously against it, prompting a stream of virile curses.

“A warning, damn you! Words, noise—anything!”

The Batman danced within the shadows, the chiseled edges of his jaw peering out amid the dark. His cape fluttered behind him as he prowled the room, observed the ever exasperated journalist.

Claire fondled the back of her head, ambled forward. A bemused smirk painted her lips. “Tell me, you’ve read the papers, haven’t you?”

“Occasionally.”

Claire chuckled, rounded on a box and began to pry it open. “You’re quite the muse, you know. I thought you’d be more appreciative.”

“Who says I’m not?” Claire felt the air stir behind her. It was chilly, soothing. Silence trembled between two. It was a fragile breed of silence, withering. Claire kept her head inclined to her box, delegating her attentions to her belongings.

“I haven’t heard from you since that night,” Claire said, voice riddled with dread.

“Busy.”

“I noticed.” Claire threw her arms to the air in exasperation. “Every scene, criminal, fiend—who was it tonight, again? Firefly? I’ve been pondering on how to incorporate him—if I should incorporate him—into Sunday’s issue. Drab suit, you know—terrible. At least yours is inventive, original! How long did it take you to devise that giddup, by the way? What gave you the idea? Why choose Bats? Why not a leopard, lion, eagle? No—no—you’re right—Hawkgirl would be peeved at your indifference to her agenda. Eagleman? Sparrowman? Crowman? Alright, that like a diease—“

Batman’s gloved hands clasped Claire’s elbows, spun her around. Claire dared to crawl her fingertips along his arm, trace the divots in the Kevlar. He was formidable, solitary. Her mind entertained lustful thoughts, driven by her inner desires—the in unfathomable emptiness lost in the wake of Bruce.

_Bruce._

“I can’t repay you for what you’ve done,” Batman said, as though reading her thoughts.

“I accept cash, credit, checks, gifts, secret identities...” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Right.” Claire bristled under the familiarity of the way he said the word, the clipped sarcasm. It was familiar—close to her heart. Where had she heard that?

“Look, I may not have completely morphed into bloodsucking reporter, but a secret identity would spice up a story,” She flicked the side of his cowl with her finger. “So, what is it? Lowly janitor? 6th grade Geometry teacher? Failed cop? Justice hungering congressman?”

“Congressman, really?” He grumbled, amused. “Any other groundbreaking scenarios?”

Claire titled her head to the side. “No, not today. Check back tomorrow—I’m running on empty.”

“Bed, then.”

Claire shifted her gaze to the boxes behind her, glistening in the moonlight that streamed in from the windows.

“I’ll pass—boxes are calling my name.” Batman’s hand moved his hand to his belt. “Whoa, now! Stay your needles! You aren’t injecting me with any more of your insipid serums. How did you get that shit anyways?  Isn’t that illegal? No, wait—scenario: You’re a doctor at Gotham Medical—savior by day, vigilante by night.”

The Batman withdrew his hand from his belt and rested it on Claire’s cheek.

“Goodnight, Claire.”

“Wait—“

He fled, dissolved into the night. Claire groaned at the boxes on the floor, eyed the door to the bedroom at her right. Through the crack, she could just discern her bed—green and blue plaid sheets, haphazardly strewn pillows.

“To hell with it all.” She made to her bedroom, sealing the door tightly behind her.

 

 


	17. You Found Me

Claire’s heels clicked against the tile as she rampaged through the lobby of Wayne Enterprises. Her hands were morphed into fists, fingernails embedding in the tender flesh of her palms.

“Miss West!” Joyce rocketed up from her seat, hazel eyes wide.

Claire snorted, rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure. _Now_ , you’re here.”

Joyce twined her fingers within one another, her lips drawn into an impish smile. “Mr. Wayne is with a client at the moment, if you just—“

Claire stalked down the hall, making for the glass doors that lead into the penthouse office.

“Miss West! Miss West!”

“Stuff it, Joyce!”

Claire shouldered open the office doors and strode inside, eyes feasting on the cunning executive before her, his hand fastened on his phone as Joyce wailed through the speaker.

The crystalline trappings of Bruce’s eyes set Claire back a few steps, her breath dawdling in her throat. He was bemused: eyebrows quirked, full lips lilted into an alluring simper.

Her cheeks flooded with crimson—from astonishment or regret? She dare not say.

“How dare you?!” The sheer pitch of her voice nearly shattered the windows. “You are an abominable, deplorable, belligerent, domineering fuckass!”

A throaty chuckle, followed by a poorly disguised cough, resonated throughout the room. Claire’s eyes drew towards the suspect—a smarmy young gentlemen befit in a dashing suit, dark hair smothered with salve and styled above a pale face, dark blue eyes colored with obvious amusement.

“Dick, this is Claire West, Gotham’s blossoming journalist. Claire, this is Dick Grayson—my son.” Bruce gestured between the two loosely, eyes assessing.

Claire snorted, crossed her arms over her chest. “What? Someone chose to reproduce with you? How unfortunate.”

Any control Dick attempted to employ was abruptly devastated by Claire’s retort. He laughed, sputtered.

Bruce ensnared his ward with a cautionary sneer.

“Where have you been hiding her, Bruce?” Dick catapulted out of his chair and slinked over to Claire, appraising her scrupulously.

“I could say the same to you,” Claire’s gestured to the young man with a careless wave of her hand. “I am yet to stumble across you on the front page of a newsstand. What? No affairs—no weekend escapades?” She squinted. “Maybe, you’re not the son of Bruce Wayne at all.”

“Nah, I avoided the fuckass gene.”

“Charming.” Claire whirled back on Bruce, emerald eyes waging an industrious, abhorrent storm.

“I cannot believe the nerve of you!” She stalked up to the desk, slammed her fist against it. With her free hand, she grappled his office phone, thrusting it before his nose. “Fix it—fix it now.”

Bruce pried the telephone from her hand, set it back into the receiver’s niche. “There’s nothing to fix, Claire. I made an investment—for the better of Gotham and Wayne Enterprises. It’s business.”

“What are you? A 60s mobster? It’s not just ‘business’!” She shrilled, leaning farther over the desk. “What sense does buying the Gazette make, huh? Explain the logic to me Bruce, _please._ ”

“I fail to see why you’re so disturbed by this, Claire. If anything, you should be overjoyed. The Gazette had been flailing for years. When the world decided to renovate and go online, it dug in its heels. For the first time in decades, this newspaper is back on the map—because of you. I see a potential profit, so I jumped. I like to be ahead.”

“Why now, hm? You could’ve transformed the company before and yielded immediate profit. We didn’t increase our internet involvement until like, 2 months ago,” Claire paused.

2 months ago…

A low whistle sounded behind Claire, followed by the opening and closing of a door, footfalls simpering away.

2 months ago….

“We’re long past due to freshen up our image.” Danielle’s eyes sulked over to the charismatic monkey at the front of the room. “This will only perpetuate our expansion, our appeal. The Gotham Gazette is going to catch the eye of everyone, from here to Metropolis!” He jived a finger down the table, his sights brushing over the crown of Claire’s head. “We are the new face of Gotham, ladies and gentlemen.”

Claire let out a low, strangled chortle. She closed her eyes, probed her fingers along the freckled expanse of her forehead.

The New Face of Gotham.

“This was your plan all along wasn’t it?” Her voice was soft. “You saw an opportunity and you seized it. Tell me, Bruce, why bother with the friendship, the dating? You were never interested in me!” She laughing, threw her hands over her head. “I almost had myself convinced, too—convinced that you cared for me outside of—of… You know what? You did it, Bruce—you won. You won and you just—you _devastated_ me! Is that what you wanted?!” She flung her arm down to the desk and seized the stapler, abruptly launching it at Bruce’s head. The pencil holder, paperclips and the telephone receiver all followed in quick secession.

Bruce, though mildly astounded—if the drop of his chiseled jaw was any indication—dodged each hurtled object efficiently and bolted over the desk to grapple Claire’s arms.

“Claire, stop this! Claire, look at me!” She writhed in his grasp, spewing every curse she could summon.

Bruce snarled, thrust her against one of the glass walls of the office. He lifted her arms above her head, a calloused hand latching onto her chin, holding her into place.

 

“Look. At. Me!” The sheer dominance in his tone sent an unbidden shiver down her spine. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes reluctantly focused on Bruce. His teeth were bared, the cords in his neck taut from physical exertion. His crystalline eyes botched her resistance, her body falling prey to the deep, miserable longing in his eyes. “ _Look at me_.”

And she finally was.

She’s spent one too many nights convincing herself that Bruce was merely a friend—trying to forget the arguments, the drinks, the walks, the laughter. Falling to his charms was almost like an ancient fable—a cataclysmic swirl of sand in an Arabian desert, engulfing an innocent traveler. She was clueless, wandering. And Bruce, well—Bruce had materialized beneath her feet, coercing her into the depth of his antics, his sorrows.

His sorrow… She saw that now; the demons that ravaged amid the glaciers in his eyes. Pain.

She ducked her head forward, dislodging Bruce’s hold on her chin. Her lips clashed into his—hungry, unrelenting. Bruce responded to her enthusiasm with relish, devouring her essence, her offering. His tongue slid into her mouth, caressed the inside of her cheek.

In time, Bruce’s hold on Claire’s body diminished completely. She bent to his will, whimpering as his hands trickled beneath her shirt. Claire wrought her hands through his ebony mane, pulled him down, down. Bruce lifted Claire’s thigh around his waist and sought ravaged her neck with vengeful kisses.

It was only when the dim tidings of the moon reached into the office that the two finally parted: hair mussed, clothes askew. Another light pierced the sky—bright, pale, with a symbol outlined within it..

“Bruce?” Claire whispered. Her fingers danced about his side, probing. “Tell me.”

He heaved a sigh, fiddled with the strands of red that lapsed about her cheeks. “Meeting.”

Claire scoffed and pressed a fleeting kiss to his clothed shoulder, inhaling his strong, masculine scent.

“Liar.”


	18. Lonely Cackles

“Master Wayne?”

Bruce glanced up from his untouched eggs, the heat having long ebbed away. A tray balanced on his lap, steeled by two massive, muscular thighs.

“There’s something rather peculiar on the news this morning, sir.”

A woman peered from behind Bruce’s tray, her eyes glossy with slumber. Her eyes were a vibrant green, and her blonde hair was plastered around her neck. “Bruce?” She squinted, nestled into the billionaire’s side. “Morning, already?”

Bruce smirked, absently ruffled the woman’s tresses, and reveled in the smooth, silken sensation between his fingers. He nodded dismissively to Alfred and reached out to grapple the TV remote at his bedside, the vibrant light of the flat screen igniting the dark room.

He surveyed the headlines flashing about the screen with gusto, devouring the names, the stolen identities. Another Justice League meddling; another crime. Bruce’s eyes sobered.

“Last night at 2 AM, there was a mass shooting on 103rd, following the massive protest outside the courthouse yesterday evening. Severe injuries were documented however, no deaths have been reported at this time. The shooter has not been captured.”

Hardly peculiar—

“In other news, the Joker was released from prison yesterday. According to government officials, an unknown donor consented for his release,” The image cut to a picture of Amanda Waller delivering a press interview. “The Joker was last seen in Gotham around 3AM this morning outside ‘Dead Joke’ night club, declaring his freedom to the masses. A witness to the case said—“

“Bruce! Bruce, stop!” The woman beside him clutched at his hands, gently prying a fork from his fist, gasping at the indents the utensil left in his skin. “Oh my God—are you OK?”

“I’ve got to go.” Bruce lurched out of bed, and fumbled with his boxers before sprinting out the door.

 

***

“I’ve already got the League on it,” Dick buzzed around the cave, an eager Damian Wayne in tow.

Bruce stormed into the cave, bare chested and fuming. “Who bailed him out?”

“I’d stake my money on Luthor,” Dick saddled up to his mentor, handing over the tablet he’d been rifling through. “If he’d involved with the League of Freedom, I wouldn’t be surprised if he teamed up with Joker. It’s been known to happen…”

“He knows we’ll be out for him.” Damian interjected, fiddling with a throwing star. His fingers skimed the smooth surface slowly, deliberately. “He wants our attention.”

 

“He’s got it.” Dick smirked humorously.

“Supes called twice today—Wally, too. The League is coming to Gotham—“

“Not a chance.” Bruce growled, settling into his daunting chair and typing away at his keyboard. “I’m calling them off.”

“What? Why?” Dick demanded, throwing his arms out to his sides. “The League is the best we’ve got at catching that asshole before he can do anything—“

“No, I agree with Bruce.” Damian discarded the weapon in his pocket. “This is our territory, our criminal. We handle it our own way.”

“And what, Damian? Kill him?”

“If necessary.” Dick and Damian exchanged a quick glance—one disapproving, the other impassive—before trailing over to Bruce, still bent over his computer.

“Looks like Alfred is stuck babysitting Parks, tonight.” Dick said.

Bruce remained silent.

“Come to think of it, Alfred has been watching after Parker a lot lately—so have I, for that matter.”

Damian hurled a throwing star in Dick’s direction. The man gracefully dodged it, barely acknowledging the definitive clink that resounded through the cave as it clattered against the metal railing, sparks whirling in its wake.

Bruce swiveled in his chair, ensnaring his ward in a guiltless glare. “You have something you want to say, Dick? Then, say it. I don’t have time for games.”

“Games?” Dick scoffed, gesturing to the secret door to the batcave, carefully guarded against a wandering Parker. “It’s been a year since Claire’s death, and you’ve practically locked yourself away from everyone, especially your sons!”

“You’re old enough. I don’t need to coddle you.”

At that, Damian snorted, rallied to Dick’s defense: “I can get along just fine with you. In fact, I’m rather used to it. But Parker? You need to acknowledge that he exists. He needs you.”

“Oh, so you’re both parents now?” Bruce quipped, propping his elbows up on the cushioned armrests of his chair, steepleing his fingers before his face. “Whenever you become fathers, then you can lecture me on parenthood and ethic, not before. I am trying to protect this city, his home.”

“No, you’re running from your responsibilities and waiting for the perfect opportunity for revenge!” Dick slammed his fist against one of the rails lining the batcave, the metal reverberating through the dark. “Parker needs you.”

“He needs his mother.” Bruce’s crystalline yes were fathomless, darkened by the bitterness he harbored. “Not me.”

“Yeah, and those tramps you drag home every night are going to replace her?” Dick said.

“Believe what you want. I’m going after the Joker tonight. If you’re coming, plan on resting or researching or engaging in something productive. Otherwise, get the hell out of my cave.”

Dick pursed his lips, closed his eyes. He turned on his heel, muttering obscenities in his departure. “Fine, Bruce. Dig your own grave.”

Bruce trailed him as he left, blinked at the slamming of the door. He turned to Damian, whose green eyes bore smartly into his; ever insistent, ever resilient. Bruce’s own reflection.

“You’re an ass.” Damian declared. “And Dick is right, no matter how painful it is for me to admit it. You’re screwing up Parker and, sooner or later, he’ll evolve into your greatest fear.” Damian trotted up a set of stairs, shouldering off the sneer that clawed at his back. “Yourself.”


	19. Revenge

The grotesque pallor, the grungy green smattering of hair, the gangly purple suit—Bruce knew that face.

Batman swept into the alley, his grapple catching on the side of a brick building. The Bat lowered himself to the ground, crept towards his prey in a slow, deliberate saunter.

“Joker.” He snarled, teeth mashed firmly together.

“BATSY!” The Joker whirled and clicked his heels together. His hands grappled the lapels of his jacket. “Well, well, well! The Dark Knight finds me, at last! Rusty in your old age, hm?”

Batman seized the fiend by the fringe around his neck, sunk in his fingers. The joker chortled, his jaw sporadically unhinging —up, down, up, down— a yellowy froth seeping from his lips. “Oh, Batsy! You chum, you! I have missed you!”

Batman growled, yanked the Joker closer. “Tell me who let you out, who dared— “

“Ah, ah, ah!” The Joker waggled an ivory gloved finger. “Careful, now! You don’t want to do something you’ll regret—“ Batman’s fist ravaged the front of the clown’s face, a thick stream of blood trickling in its wake. Batman’s hold now broken on the Joker; the clown thrashed against the brick alley wall, appendages crumpling in on each other.

Joker lifted a finger to his bloody lips. “Oh, struck a nerve have I?” The Joker laughed; shrill, maniacal chortles that bounced off the alley walls, and rattled within the Batman’s brain. Batman seized the clown again, his fist mercilessly pounding against the fiend’s face. He rustled the Joker against the wall, forcibly struck his head against the brick.

Bloodied and blistered, the clowned dared to laugh. He squinted through swollen eyes, fighting past the bulbous blisters of purple and blue. Batman constricted his fist around the Joker’s throat, flexed his fingers.

“Do it.” The Joker croaked. “Finish it, Batsy, finish me. You know you wanna.”

The moon glinted off the Bat’s cowl, highlighted the formidable resolve brewing in his eyes. Blue, so blue…

For her—for Claire…

His knuckles tightened.

 “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

The Batman paused, a rare smirk feigning across his lips.

“Talia.”


	20. Don't

… hate me.

I don’t presume that you all reread this work until your eyes nearly burst with exhaustion, or that you frequently think back to this fanfiction and the pleasure it offers you.

Seriously—I don’t.

However, if you’ve glanced over this work recently, you would notice that the chapters have changed!

Remember when this fic used to have 24 chapters? Good times.

This fanfiction was started nearly two years ago, driven by the kindly dreams and wildly imagination of a struggling college student. Fear not, I am still a struggling college student, I’m just swimming in a bigger pile of assignment, but the dream and imagination aspects could use some work. In the time I’ve worked on this fic, my writing has changed—some for the better, some for the worst. And in that, I lost my motivation to my poor writing.

So, I seized my Thanksgiving break and set to remastering the piece I so dearly adore. And guess what, folks?

I AM MOTIVATED TO WRITE!

But, I fear, the story has changed. Greatly.

To the old readers: Many things have changed in the fic, and I encourage you to reread it. No pressure, though, I have constructed a list of things you need to know moving forward. 

To the new readers: Welcome aboard the shit train that is my fanfiction! You don’t need to read the following.

 

**CHANGES:**

 

  * Numerous chapters have been condensed into one, and changed. Again, I implore you to reread them, but only at your leisure. The wording has changed, the structure has changed and the style has changed. It should be easier to read, but please critique me to your heart’s delight!
  * The Joker never disappeared. In fact, the League caught him and tossed him in the slammer—tough break. Crucial information is disclosed in chapters 11 & 13\. These chapters cover the conversation with Waller, and… someone else, a future ally. Definitely items you should revisit.
  * I axed the whole “green fluid disease” sickness that reaps Claire’s life. Yes, Claire is poisoned, but the approach to her health is destabilizing, different. (Chapter 2—good stuff.)
  * Revisit chapter 10--there's more of a build up to the story, and the antics that follow. Definitely wroth revisiting, primarily for the romantic aspect. (Wouldn't hurt to reread the Raining Glass chapter, as well.) 
  * Luthor isn’t in jail and, as far as anyone knows, he isn’t DIRECTLY related to the crime. (See 11 & 13)
  * I entertained remastering chapter 19, but it was met with great reception. So, with you in mind, I kept it and decided to build from there.
  * I understand if the changed throw you off, trust me. I have a plot, and I was starting to lose it. This redirection is helping to shape the remainder of this fic. Hopefully, the newest chapter I post will prove such.
  * I leave for Christmas break soon, and I’ll have more time on my hands. My goal is a chapter or so a week, but I don’t want to burn myself (or you!) out. I found that I prefer longer chapters to shorter chapter as they encourage thoroughness.



As always, pop a comment and tell me what you think!

 

Happy reading!


	21. Discourse

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Claire said, gesturing to her temporary cubicle at _The Daily Planet_ , a beaming Lois Lane at her ear.

“Don’t mention it,” Lois flicked back an errant strand of black hair, rolled her violet-colored eyes. “I’m just thankful to have another woman around here to talk to—have you seen the idiots I work with?”

“Hey!” Jimmy cooed, his red hair askew.

“Beat it, Jimmy,” Lois laughed, leaning on the edge of Claire’s makeshift office. “Seriously—make yourself at home. God knows the lunacy that’ll surface the city during this snore of a Summit—makes me wonder why they even bothered with Metropolis.”

Claire gestured to the open windows behind her peering into the bustling life of the city. “Lavish hotels, fine dining, great reporting—the list goes on and on,” Claire shrugged her shoulder, snorted. “Doesn’t hurt that Superman frequents the city, I’m sure.” Claire ensnared Lois with a pointed look, green eyes sparkling with mirth.

Lois barked out a humorless laugh, slid a hand to ward off the invisible lint on her shirt. “Every time, it never fails. Besides, can you really point fingers, Claire? Your claim to fame is an article about a civilian Batman—tell me that’s not getting personal...”

Claire fought back the heat that rose in her cheeks.

“Who’s getting personal?” Clark Kent cantered over to the conversing journalists, his sheer height engulfing Claire’s space. His kindly blue eyes peered down at Claire, her eyes drawn to his toned arms and strong chin.

 _What did he do on that farm?_ Claire admired.

“Claire and  Batman,” Lois cast Clark a pointed look.

“I always knew those stories were more than fiction,” Clark said, throwing in a conspiratorial wink.

Claire threw her hands to the air and puffed out her cheeks, fed up with the whole ordeal. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Lois checked the phone ringing in her palm and excused herself, throwing a farewell over her shoulder as she stalked away.

Claire’s own phone sprung to life on her desk, Bruce Wayne lighting up her screen.

“It wouldn’t be a coincidence if that’s the same Bruce Wayne of Wane Enterprises, would it?” Clark said, an unspoken curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“I’m his correspondent—unofficially.” Claire eyes shifted around the room uneasily. “I try to deliver him a head’s up before shit hits the fan—usually on the weekends.” She chastised the impish grin on her face.

 “Oh, right,” Clark said. “Didn’t he just purchase the Gazette a few months ago?”

 _Thanks for the reminder._ Claire heaved her shoulders, fought back the wild spirals of red that impeded her face. The phone on her desk ceased buzzing, only to renew its enthuse moments later. Claire fought back a groan.

Clark laughed. “I should let you get that. Still good for grabbing lunch tomorrow?”

Claire released a vibrant smile, overjoyed by the hospitality of her temporary partners. “I only need to hear 3 words from you, Clark: Burgers and fries.”

“I’m on it—1:30?” Claire nodded and the quirky reporter fumbled off, a funny smile lilting his lips. It was almost like a secret—a joke she hadn’t been let in on. Claire fought not to dwell on it too long, and got to work typing up the day’s story.

For the next three days, Claire would call Metropolis her home as she covered the ins and outs of the UN Summit in Metropolis. Claire knew that her job wasn’t merely to write the ceaseless nonsense that rambled from the lips of foreign diplomats. No, Danielle stationed her there for the heroes, the action—additional installments for her running stream of hero stories. Given her immense popularity, and increasing fondness for Lois Lane, Claire was allowed to spend the next three days in The Daily Planet, sharing a newsroom with the country’s finest writers, reporters.

It was her Cinderella moment.

When Claire stumbled to exit the Planet that night, Clark and Lois were the only two remaining in the office. She shuffled by Lois to confirm lunch, and caught Clark’s massive figure talking into his cell on the building’s balcony. Claire waved at him through the door. Clark gifted her with a wide, toothy smile.

***

“My hotel key isn’t working,” Claire said, saddled up against the desk of the Metropolis Gold, the line at the reception desk wafting across the expansive library.

“Ma’am, please, just try it again,” The concierge begged, his brown eyes sunken with fatigue.

“Gee, wish I would’ve thought of that the first time,” Claire clipped. “I had to climb up and down 3 flights of stairs because the elevator is jammed, and this? It’s not my fault you overbooked. Just fix my card.”

The concierge bit his cheek and swiped back her room key, punching her name into the system. His eyes flew wide, beseeched Claire with an anxious stare.

He called over a bellhop, whispered something in his ear. The bellhop saddled to Claire side instantly, hands grappling for her discarded luggage. The concierge handed Claire a new key, a pleasurable smile plastered on his face.

“Pardon the inconvenience ma’am—I apologize on the behalf of the hotel. Kenneth will show you to your suite,” He said, and reached behind his desk to unfurl a bottle of champagne. “For your wait, ma’am.”

Claire grappled the bottle sweetly, cradled it to her chest. “I-thank you.” Kenneth guided her to the elevator, coercing her into the large contraption. Claire peered out the long window of the elevators, curiously spectating the people that lolled around the lobby floor. As the elevator climbed, her view of them maker smaller, indiscernible. Her eyes looked to the climbing numbers on the floor indicator.

“Ugh, Kenneth?”

“Yes, m’am?”

“My room is on the third floor,” Claire said, stepping back as the doors spring open on the 12th floor.

“Your room was switched, ma’am—it’s no trouble, I assure you.”

Switched?

_I guess they upgraded for the wait—no complaints here._

The two disembarked from the elevator and padded down an elegantly carpeted hall. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and lavish portraits of landscapes scattered the walls. Kenneth paused before a set of double doors, his hand pressing the key card to the touch pad, the door clicking ajar.

Claire shouldered the door open, mouth dropping as she stood in the foyer of her hotel room. To her right, an open bar beckoned, chocolate decorating the counters. To her left, a mammoth sized TV set before a grandiose leather couch that circled around the sweet, a glass coffee table cradling an iced bottle of Moscato.

With a fee hesitant steps forward, Claire’s eyes snagged on the door leading to the bedroom, the furnishings of the bed toying at the edge of her vision.

“Hey, ugh, Kenneth…” Claire said slowly, eyeing drifting across the room in disbelief. “H—how much is this upgrade costing me?”

“You?” A familiar voice nibbled at her ear. “How could I ever allow you to pay for such a thing?” Claire jumped as supple, muscle-corded arms clutched at her waist and drew her near. Lips fluttered about her neck, and a hand traced soft, intricate patterns into the clothed expanse of her thigh. Claire breath quavered, her hands reaching up hopelessly to embrace the deliciously soft ebony tresses of the man behind her.

“Bruce, you fuckass,” Claire said, her insult dissipating under breathless exultation that fluttered from her lips.

“I figured since you weren’t answering my calls, my memory devastated you beyond words,” Bruce chuckled, deep, sultry vibrations caressing her ear. “So, I came _to you.”_

***

“I don’t know why you bothered to come _all_ the way up here,” Claire drawled, sarcasm dripping from her words. “What happened to your project?”

“Postponed,” Bruce growled into her ear, urging her closer as she tried to escape.

Claire scoffed, rolled her eyes. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here, Bruce—I know you better than that.”

Bruce grunted his derision. “Journalists, always thinking that know everything—“

“No, no I know everything—about you, at least,” Claire said. “Just because I didn’t answer my phone—“

“Is it not enough to believe I missed you?”

“Actually, yes.” She spun around in his arms and caressed his cheek, a secretive smile lighting her lips. “Spit it out, Bruce—you’re hiding something.”

“A month of dating, and this?” Bruce puffed out his cheeks. “I’m not sure how to feel.”

Claire just squinted at him, pressuring him with the scrutiny in her gaze.

Bruce shrugged. “I was invited to speak at the summit—“

“Convenient,” Claire shuffled away from his touch. “Bruce, I can handle this.”

Bruce stood, shoved his hands in his pockets. His eyes discerned her with immeasurable desire, longing.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

Claire threw her hand to the air and whirled to face him, fire kindling in her eyes. “You can’t be serious! Superman lives here, I write about _fucking Batman!_ The League, cops, FBI—they’re all watching! I am _perfectly_ fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Bruce insisted.

“And what can you _do_ about it?” Claire drawled in exasperation, shoulders slinking to her sides. “You’re just a man, Bruce—if things went to hell, you couldn’t do anything!”

Bruce, ignited by her words, surged forward and grappled Claire’s forearms, hurtling his words through clenched teeth: “I would find a way—I will _always_ find a way.”

***

_I will always find a way._

“Missed me, my love?” Talia cooed, slinking through the alley.

Batman gaped as the Joker was thrust from his grasp and tackled to the ground, effectively severed from consciousness with a punch. Five assassins peered at Bruce, hovering possessively over Joker.

“Talia,” Batman fought to contain his anger, his booming voice bristling. “He’s _mine_.”

“You’re quite mistaken,” Talia passed her long, brown hair over her shoulder, beguiled the Knight with a shimmering green wink.

“I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Neither am I, my love. I come on behalf of my father, nothing more,” She cooed in her decadent voice, hips swaying slowly as she made toward an unconscious Joker.

“What business does Ra’s have with the Joker?” Batman snarled.

“Who am I to know all my father’s tricks?” Talia purred. She laid a hand on Bruce’s armour, walked her fingers along his chest. “I’m not so unwelcomed, am I?”

“Mother?” Damian—dressed in his crusading’s best—swung into the alley, a disgusted Nightwing at his side.

“I thought I smelt adulteress,” Nightwing remarked, crinkling his nose beneath his mask.

“Damian, darling,” Talia’s green eyes slid to her son’s, casting him a sultry wink. “My family—reunited, at last.”

"Yeah, a real celebration,” Nightwing muttered.

“Enough,” Batman grunted toward the Joker. “I’m taking him in.”

“Taking him in?” Talia laughed. “You nearly chocked the life from him, do you really expect me to believe you would turn him into your meagre authorities? No—he owes a debt to father, and a debt he shall repay.”

“Grandfather promised no to intervene—“ Damian started.

“A personal debt,” Talia’s eyes raked over her son, her former lover. “I’m afraid this is where we depart, my love.”

The assassins hefted the Joker in their arms and stole down the alley, their footfalls all by silent as they disembarked.

One assassin stayed behind, face cast in robes. She managed a few clipped words in a foreign tongue.

Talia set her jaw.

“Bruce, son,” Her eyes lingered distastefully on Dick. “Bastard.”

“Always a pleasure,” Nightwing replied, fixing the woman with an obscene gesture.

Under the guise of smoke, Talia vanished. Behind her, the lone assassin lingered. She paused for only a moment, eyes tracing over the trio in the alley.

She stepped forward, deigning to utter something, but found herself overcome by a fit of coughs. Head hunched forward, she, too, vanished in smoke.

Batman stared after the assassin, suppressing the vengeful lust that warred in the bowls of his heart.

He was so close—finally, he could’ve—he would’ve—

He clenched his fist.

_I will always find a way._


	22. Parker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter, but sweet. It's my Birthday today, and I decided to binge watch superhero/Disney flicks and write a bit. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Bruce wandered through the hall, his eyes drawn to the dark mahogany rafters. Dick ambled at his side, blue eyes hesitantly probing his caretaker.

Bruce cleared his throat, burrowed his hands in his pockets. “How’s Barbara?”

“You would’ve killed him,” Dick blurted, cursing himself at his slip. “I mean—“

“Probably,” Bruce grumbled in his crass baritone. His forehead crinkled. “I broke my own rules, my code. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

Dick merely idled at Bruce’s side, mouth bobbling uncertainly. He probably should’ve stuck to answering the Barbara question…

“I’ve always been ahead, Dick—and, for the first time since I started this crusade, I’m not. When you play but a certain set of rules all your life, it shouldn’t be so easily abandoned,” Bruce raised a hand and wiped it across his face. “Every day I step away from those rules, I lose my family. I can’t lose my family again.” Bruce’s words treaded the air as a crackled whisper, groggy.

“You’re family isn’t going anywhere, Bruce—we’re all still here,” Dick acquiesced. “You’re—you’re my fath—you raised me. You transformed me into a badass, super-fly hero. I owe you my life.” The rascally grin Dick boasted as he spoke, faltered, and dissolved into a faint grimace. “Hey, before, in the cave—“

“You were right.”

Dick paused in the middle of the hall, thrust a hand dramatically to his heart. His eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Do my ears deceive me? Did I just hear the high and mighty Bruce Wayne concede defeat?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Dick said. “Pretty sure this is a first—can you say it, again?”

“No,” Bruce grunted, and his ears drew to the end of the hall. Shrill, joyous giggles trembled through the bowels of the hall, echoed off the walls and nestled into Bruce’s heart.

_Parker._

Dick laughed in earnest and trekked down the hall, Bruce in tow. The pair turned the knob to a door, entered a room full of walls adorned in dinosaurs, and images of a prehistoric past. Parker giggled in his crib, his eyes reduced to slits in his obvious joy. He stood on his legs and bounced ecstatically on his mattress, little fists beating against the wooden confines of his crib.

Bruce approached, an extravagant smile brightening his face. Parker turned toward his father, pointed to the window.

“Mommy!” He exclaimed. “I saw mommy!”

Dick walked over to the billowing curtains of the window and fixed Bruce with a wistful smile. The air was chilled, the window left open during the day.

Bruce hefted the toddler into his arms, jostled him playfully. “Did you, now?”

Parker’s hands wrought across Bruce’s face, his lips. His pudgy fingers teased his father’s skin, laughing as Bruce flicked out his tongue.

Bruce’s eyes traced his tiny warrior: the hair, the freckles, the cheeky smile. He probed his forehead against his son’s. He knew his mission, his code—and Parker has living proof of it. Killing… What would that teach him? His vows against vengeance and needless murder flooded behind his eyes. His first night beneath his hood, his triumph with Ra’s, and the conquest for the city—his city.

He knew he had to speak with Ra’s, and discern his intentions with the Joker. But it couldn’t be achieved through the league, not this time. If Ra’s was involved with the Joker, he was invested in Gotham. Bruce knew Ra’s—could read his mind. Bruce had allowed himself to stray from his duties—from himself, from _his family—_ for far too long.

The mediocrity he’d been showing was no longer apt. \He had to protect the city—for Parker, for Alfred, for Damian and Dick.

And he would have to break the rules to do it.

_Just like old times._

Dick, who came to rub Parker’s arm, caught the glint in Bruce’s eye. He shook his head.

“I don’t like that look…”

Bruce smiled, shucked a hand under Parker’s chin. “I think it’s past time I reclaimed this city.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Dick said. “I can finally go on an actual _date._ You try getting a call about a robbery in the middle of—“ Bruce shot his ward a scalding look. “—sushi.”

Bruce cuddled Parker a minute longer and resigned to swaddling him into bed. Tuckered from his antics, Parker’s eyes flickered closed. Dick and Bruce stared at him adoringly.

“You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?” Dick asked, nodding toward the window. “You don’t really think he saw anything?”

Bruce rested a steely blue gaze on Dick, eyebrows drawn up his forehead. “We work in a league of aliens, super-powered humans and sorcerers. And you’re questioning apparitions of the dead?”

“You’re right,” Dick said begrudgingly. “So when are we hitting the streets?”

“Tomorrow. I have research to do.” With that, Bruce brushed into the hall.

Dick watched his shadow retreat and looked back to the window.

“Yeah, sure, ghosts,” he muttered and turned to retreat, casting one last conspiring glance at the sealed window. 

***

“It’s late—whoever this is better have a damn good reason.”

Bruce adjusted the phone at his ear, leaned his head back against his cushioned chair. Bats whirled about his head, zig-zagged between the raptures and gullies of the cave. Their wings were a comfort, reassurance.

“The threat is Ra’s,” Bruce said, closing his eyes.

“Slow discovery, for you,” The voice through the phone boomed, intrigued. “Has Batman lost his touch?”

“You’re going to tell me what you know,” Bruce barked into the receiver. “And, in turn, I’ll secure an investment in one of your projects.”

A silence.

“Which one?”

“Bruce Wayne will be Metropolis on Wednesday to long-time acquaintance and business partner Lex Luthor. Call the press. I want witnesses.”

“Mercy will call in the morning,” Lex said. His voice oozed mirth. “What about your League pests? They don’t have anything to say?”

“Where Gotham is concerned, they aren’t,” Bruce said. “My city comes first.”

“Fair enough—and your sons?”

“Parker will accompany me.”

Lex laughed. “And I’ll be including that in the press release as well?”

Bruce smirked. “Better than the entire Justice League.”

“Let’s hope he inherited his mother’s sense of humor,” Lex mused. “Wednesday. You know where to land the jet.”


	23. Uncharted Territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 102 kudos?! That is spectactular! Thanks for reading, thanks for being and thanks for you input! 
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: Chapter is dialogue heavy and a bit experimental.  
> I wanted to tap into a little relationship development with Claire and Bruce, and set up the playing field for the next few chapters. Balancing some parallels, and some life-changing events.  
> Also, smut is on the way!
> 
> Enjoy~!

“Don’t they have burger places in Gotham?” Clark Kent mused, winking a blue eye in Claire’s direction.

The object of his quip grinned, puckering her lips around a salty, savory fry.

“Lay off, Clark—she’s obviously nervous,” Lois said, patting his arm admonishingly.

_Nervous, sure. There’s nothing to worry about—room full of heroes, dignitaries and press hounds, easy._

Claire swirled a fry in ketchup, content with her sarcastic mental murmurings.

“Well would you look at that,” Lois snarked, violet eyes scrutinizing the front of the shop. “Bruce Wayne—mingling among the common man, do I smell a headline?” She clutched at her purse, withdrew a sleek, felt-tipped pen and prattled away.

Claire choked, a French fry lodging in her throat. She coughed once, twice and fanned her cheeks, desperately hoping to ward away the dread that lodged in her throat.

 _Why? What wasn’t clear about ‘I’m going to lunch with my cool journalist friends, you controlling bastard?’_ Claire crinkled her eyebrow, swished her hand in the air derisively. _OK—controlling is a bit much. Let’s venture ‘invasive douche’ or ‘fucking-impatient-bastard’._

Claire hand furiously rubbed circles on the juncture of her neck, a finger winding around a stray curl that coalesced from the tight bun at the back of her neck.

“You look green,” Clark commented across the table, and rested a reassuring hand at Claire’s elbow. “Are you feeling alright?”

Claire blazed into him with an impertinent look, eyes scathing shards of green. “Oh, no. Just great—perfectly fine.”

Clark lips feigned an odd smile—a secretive, sympathetic gesture. His blue eyes rested on her, as genteel and empathetic as any vast, sunny country sky.

Claire quirked a brow, narrowed an eye. “Clark—“

Lois returned to the table, her eyebrows swimming down the bridge of her nose.

“What a woman wouldn’t do for a filler,” she muttered. “And the playboy refuses to talk. Rumor has it, he’s delivering the opening remarks for the conference.”

“I have it on good authority that I am,” Bruce’s debonair voice intoned at Claire’s ear. Lois began to raise her audio recorder, mouth opening: “Off the record.”

_I will not kick his ass, I will not kick his ass…_

“No source, no dough—useless,” Lois said, deflated. “Why do I even bother with you?”

Claire could feel the grin that radiated at her back, and winced as Bruce’s hand came to lay on the small of her back. Clark’s eyes drifted over Claire’s face fleetingly before peering over her head, to the man behind her.

“Bruce Wayne, always a pleasure,” Clark said, smiling congenially, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Aren’t you from the Weekly Planet, or something? I don’t own that one, right?”

 “You’re despicable,” Lois’s lip quivered with disgust. “We were just finishing up here—so, what can we do for you, Bruce?”

Claire’s hands all but smothered her face, her eyes peeling through the tiny slits between each finger.

“I just wanted a word with Claire—I’ll make it quick,” Bruce said. The hand at Claire’s back all but burned through her pantsuit. “Claire?”

Lois—head quirked to the side, eyebrows drawn up inquisitively—elbowed Clark, who, as before, wore that same quirky, sympathetic smile.

“Don’t leave without me,” Claire hissed, snatched up her wallet and click-clacked away to the corner of the bustling Metropolis restaurant.

By the time Bruce saddled up to her side, Claire was all but fuming: cheeks aflame, arms crossed under her breasts, lips puckered, emerald eyes molded into lethal arrows.

“You know we can’t be seen together in public!” She all but screeched. Bruce chuckled and caressed Claire’s elbow, leading her astray from the onslaught of the public eye. “If Clark, or Lois—“

“Clark and Lois aren’t paparazzi hounds, they wouldn’t do that to a friend.”

“You’d be surprised!” Claire threw her arms in the air. “How did you even find me here?!”

“Lucky guess,” Bruce said. “Your tastes are easy enough to follow.”

“I’m predictable, how reassuring,” she muttered. “But seriously, why are you here? Shouldn’t you already be at the Summit?”

“I’m always late,” Bruce said, eyes glowing with mirth.

“Bruce…”

Bruce’s eyes softened. “You didn’t say good-bye before you left this morning—I didn’t get the chance to wish you luck.”

The flames roaring about Claire’s heart quieted, replaced by a soothing warmth.

“Bruce—I’ll be fine—“

“Undoubtedly,” he said. “But you could use the reassurance, I could use the reassurance…” His eyes trailed into the distance—lost, riddled with dread.

Claire laid a hand on his chest and slid her fingers beneath the flat of his suit jacket, fingers sliding against his sheer, silk shirt.

“I really don’t see why you’re so worked up about this. It’s not like you’re this dashing, highly-desirable billionaire, who could produce any amount of security or service at a moment’s notice.” She winked. “We’ll be fine—safe! Just breathe, like me, see,” She drew out a humorous breath, drew in the next. “See—alive, breathing, here. You and me—all of Metropolis, all of the world—it’s all goooooood.”

Bruce sniffed the air, raised an eyebrow.

“Were you drinking?”

“Jack and Coke—but that’s not the point.”

Bruce’s icy eyes drilled into hers.

“Alright—so, no—I didn’t. Maybe _you_ should be drinking?”

_Note to self: Don’t let him smell my breath._

 “Avoid masked vigilantes and heroes today, will you? I’d like to take my girlfriend out to dinner in one piece.”

“ _Girlfriend_?” Claire squeaked, green eyes wide. She composed herself quickly, squared her shoulders. “I mean, we haven’t made anything official, and we haven’t had sex or…” She felt the flam sear around her heart once more.

“Something we should endeavor to change,” Bruce said, a contagious grin framing his luscious, full lips. He leaned closer, muscular form shadowing her much smaller, much curvy one. “On _all_ accounts.”

Claire giggled nervously, shrinking back against the restaurant wall. “Must go—event—press badge—need—job—“

Bruce threw a grin over his shoulder, and dived down to plant a chaste kiss on Claire’s freckled cheek. He leaned back, smug with the restaurant’s obviousness.

“I’ll be watching for you,” he said. “Do well.”

Claire straightened her blouse and all but scampered away, raising a hand to cool her cheek.

“What in the name of—“ Lois began.

“No time, we’ll be late—so late. Let’s go!” Claire hustled to the door, an eager Lois scurrying after her.

Clark collected his jacket from the back of his chair, caught Bruce Wayne’s eyes from across the restaurant. Bruce left him with a wink, blue eye twinkling from the shadows of the restaurant. Clark merely smiled and followed his retreating friends.  

***

The capital briefing room of Metropolis was formidable, the dignitary room arranged like a colosseum. Dignitaries and ambassador of the United Nations gathered on the padded seats below; journalists and broadcasters sat on the top. Claire’s party sat at an angle, peering down onto the scene below. To the left of the journalists laid lavish foreign family members and translators. They brandished fake smiles, closed their eyes in boredom. Claire observed them with mild interest until her eyes were drawn to the upraised podium at the front of the room, an overhead projector beaming onto a glass wall.

Several heroes lined the entrances: J’onn the Martian, Wonderwoman and a stoic Green Lantern.

Claire made careful notes when they moved, spoke—this was her angle, her story, and she would frame it through a narrative.

Each hero present gave a brief welcome, followed by the one and only, Bruce Wayne. Bruce sauntered up to the podium, elegance oozed with each step, each debonair sway. Most of his speak lacked actual words, and involved more teeth flashing and winking. Yet, Claire’s heart skipped with each one. This was her boyfriend, afterall.

Boyfriend? What was she—a high schooler? It wasn’t as though they were stealing kisses by the water fountain, and—and skipping off to class, hands intertwined. They were adults, composed. The proposition of being a “girlfriend” shouldn’t make her giddy. Oh, but it did. Claire was smitten.

She watched his lips, smiled at his chiseled chin, bold cheek bones. How was it possible to ensnare should a man? Oh, who was she kidding? He captured her—his smile, his touch, his confessional and confidant demeanor. It was never truly friendship—that fragile dance between Bruce and Claire, each step heading toward the inevitable—the inevitable that was now.

_It doesn’t matter—he’s temporary. He’ll drop me soon._

Claire’s heart plummeted into the middle of her stomach, eyes festering on the pen that scribbled in her grasp.

Who was she kidding? She could never conform to Bruce’s expectations. She’d seen his haphazard resume of women: models, athletes, heiresses, famous woman and, God be damned, Lois Lane.

Claire peered down to the small pudge peering out from her waist and the mountainous range that was her breasts. Sure, she wasn’t stout, but she wasn’t fit either—and the thought of Bruce touching her, loving her—it was humiliating. Especially given his earlier comments…

 _No,_ she thought. _We’ll have to end this before it comes to sex. I won’t do it._

Oh, but she wanted to…

Her eyes snagged on his shoulders hidden beneath his suit jacket and roved over the clothed expanse of his chest. He was beautiful, divine and utterly ideal. And that was why, she vowed, they would never announce their brief affair. She wouldn’t be humiliated—not now that she had a merit, the job she dreamed about. Journalists didn’t date the Bruce Waynes of the world—at least, this one didn’t.

_It wouldn’t be fair to Bruce either—winding up with someone like me. What would his friends think, his family? I couldn’t do that to him._

As Bruce’s spiel concluded, his eyes sought the upper story of the room. His charming smile faltered, his lip quivered. For the slightest moment—Claire swore he knew her thoughts, her doubts. It reflected in his eyes, the subtle twitch of his chin. He lifted a hand to his lips, kissed it and threw it in her direction. The women swooned; the men groaned; and Claire simply averted her eyes.

Next to her, Lois Lane let loose a cynical chuckle.

“Always one for theatrics,” she muttered.

And there—in her seat—Claire delved back into her work, the ghost of Bruce lingering through her mind; lips pent up in a disheartening, devastating smile.

***

Claire had only a moment to yawn before she was swept away in the seamless tide that exited the court house. Lois and Clark forged their way to the front of the fray—pens ready, recorders in hand. Claire, however, delighted in a cumbersome walk. She sifted a hand through her hair, and sunk her heels into the burgundy carpet of the lobby.

“And there she is—I told you she’d be here.”

Claire’s eyes—every drooping, reaping with tiredness—soared to life, seeping in the extravagant, grinning billionaire before her. Bruce gestured to her kindly, taking her elbow gently in his palm and persuading her to stand before another figure—a tall man, wrapped in a silken grey suit. His lips were lilted into a smug sneer, and the top of his bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the lobby. His eyes—as rich and dark of chocolate—swam with mild curiosity, Claire’s reflection beaming in their depths.

“Miss West,” his said. His tone was cynical, assessing. “I’ve read your work—I must say, this is a pleasure.”

Claire smirked, subtly seizing back her previously captive elbow.

“That means a lot—truly—coming from a man who opposes everything Batman stands for.”

“I would never make an enemy of the Batman,” He chuckled, his eyes sliding over to Bruce. “The League of Fraudulence, however...”

“Well, considering they haven’t landed you in jail during the past month—“

“As you can see, Claire is changing the fate of journalism—and my associates,” Bruce laughed congenially, ensnaring Claire with a cautionary glance. “Well, now that you’ve made Claire’s acquaintance, I have some business to discuss with her. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course,” Lex Luthor purred. “I simply intended to lend my kudos to the artist. I have openings at Lex Corp—in case you’re interested.”

“What type of—“ Claire began, only to be abruptly muted by Bruce’s booming chuckles.

“Lex, are you profiteering from my journalist?” Bruce tucked his hands into his pockets, inclined his head and winked. “Claire’s place is in Gotham—who else could find and expose the Batman?”

“You’d be surprised,” Lex grunted. “He may be closer than you’d think.”

Bruce and Lex exchanged a hooded silence; one assessing the other, eyes narrowed.

“The offer still stands, Miss. West, should you ever desire it.” Luthor lifted Claire’s hand and kissed it promptly, eyes glittering with clandestine craving.

Claire simply laughed, watched Lex’s retreating form.

 “You hate that man.”

“You have no idea,” Bruce turned to Claire, shrugged. “He insisted.”

“What? A woman writes a story and gets showered with attention? I should be flattered.”

“Not just any story,” Bruce grinned. “A Pulitzer tends to turn heads.”

“Is that all I am to you? A Pulitzer?” Claire teased, training her smoldering green eyes on Bruce.

“If only,” Bruce groaned and leaned in closer. Claire raised a hand to ward him off immediately, eyes wide with freight.

“ _Not here_!”

Bruce sighed, ambled a hand to the back of his neck, rubbed it in exasperation.

“Claire, we’ve discussed this—I want to tell the press, solidify this.”

“You know why we can’t—why I can’t,” Claire beseeched, voice oozing with repentance. “I don’t want anyone thinking you bought me out. Please, Bruce—try to understand this—“

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, refocused them on Claire and nodded toward the door.

“We aren’t doing this here,” he said. “Tonight, I’m taking you out and, one way or another, I’ll change your mind.”

“I doubt that,” Claire scoffed and made for the exit, head slung over her shoulder. “Typical playboy—so overconfident in your male bravado and romancery.”

“Romancery,” Bruce teased, eyes hungering after Claire as she retreated. “Is that even a word?”

***

“Forget it!” Claire yelled, practically cowering in the corner of a _The Ponce,_ an upscale Metropolis night club. The floors vibrated with eccentric music, the walls razzed with pulsating neon lights.

Bruce clutched her hips in his large, strong hands. His teeth shone with varying shades of green and pink, yellow. “You’re not talking your way of out this one, West!”

“Bruce—I swear to God—“ She screeched as Bruce wrangled her onto the midst of the dancefloor, perilously dodging the froth of gyrating bodies.

What started out as a humble, delectable dinner has wound Claire here—eyes squinting through the bright lights, hands struggling to outmaneuver a persistent Bruce.

Bruce slid a hand over her hip, cupping the curvature of her bum. Claire squealed, but was only pulled closer, Bruce’s other hand pressing into the small of her back. He tilted her forward, waist thrusting into his hips. He guided her slowly at first—a bleated rhythm, hands sculpting the sultry snap of her hips.

Claire tried to ease herself into the movement: circulated her hips, tightened her arms around Bruce’s waist. Two seconds in, Claire huffed and began to pull away. Before she could open her lips, Bruce bestowed them with a kiss, prompting her eyes to slowly slip shut.

“Watch me,” Bruce murmured, deep baritone riding on the pulsating grooves of the music.

Claire opened her eyes, losing herself in Bruce’s. Blue, cold—a frigid sensation that livened her resolve.

She shuddered, allowed his hands to steady her. Their pace quicken, each snap of their hips rivaled them forward, faster. In spite of herself, Claire flung her arms around Bruce’s perspiring neck, and licked the shell of his ear, delighting in the shiver that riveted down his spine.

Exhilarated, Claire whirled in his arms, her bottom executing a staggered, sultry assault against Bruce’s front. Bruce’s hand roved down Claire’s chest, palmed a breast through her shirt.

“Bruce,” she moaned and clunked her head against Bruce’s shoulder. She laid her lips on her neck, suckled the tenderness of her skin. Chuckles rumbled through Bruce’s chest, jostled his shoulders, and his hands grappled Claire’s waist once more, beckoning them faster.

In the middle of the music, Claire heard a series of clicks and crinkled her eyebrows. She felt Bruce stiffen beneath her, his undulating hips stuttering to a halt.

“I need you to run,” Bruce whispered vehemently. “Now.”

Claire opened her eyes, and gaped at the onslaught of ravenous paparazzi that lurked before her.


	24. Would you, would you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short stand-alone chapter. Hitting a few speed bumps. Next chapter will be brimming with goodies. I will try to post a few chapters before returning to school, but no guarantees!   
> Busy semester!

“Well, it could definitely be worse,” Bruce’s press agent, Ray, paced in front of the sofa in Claire’s hotel room, several newspapers balanced in one hand, his phone in the other.

“Oh, sure, much worse,” Claire muttered into a lush, leather sofa cushion. Her eyes focused on the black material, her fists clenched atop the fleshy canvas of her thighs. “My integrity has been jeopardized, but everything is great, fine, wonderful.”

“This’ll blow over by tomorrow,” Ray soothed. “Send your piece in for publication tonight. Make it extravagant, soulful—something to distract the press.”

Something to distract—“ Claire voice constricted, and she launched from the couch, jabbed a finger in Ray’s face. “I AM PRATICALLY HAVING SEX ON THE COVER OF EVERY NEWSPAPER AND MAGAZINE IN THE WORLD. I CAN’T EVEN LOG ON FUCKING FACEBOOK. MY BROTHER,” Claire withdrew the phone from her pocket, launched it at Ray’s falsely-tanned face. “HE WANTS TO LOCK ME IN A CONEVANT. AND YOU THINK A STORY WILL UNDERMINE THIS? ARE YOU INSANE?! THIS IS WHY NO ONE LIKE PUBLIC RELATIONS PEOPLE. YOU ARE ABOLSUTELY DEPLORABLE.”

Bruce’s arms constricted about Claire’s shoulders, spun her around and cradled her against his side. Ray blinked at the couple, eyes twinkling with excitement. His eyes slid once to Claire, then to Bruce.

“She’s a keeper,” Ray said, a grin catapulting across his face.

“Ray, _you’re not helping_ ,” Bruce’s vexation shone between the strands of Claire’s hair as she clawed to escape his strong hold, her legs thrashing through the air, knocking into the coffee table.

Ray laughed. “Alright, Alright, I need a statement---from you. The assault won’t stop until I feed the masses. They usually prefer raw meat, operational limbs,” His eyes fastened on Claire. “Just ask her—she’s one of them.”

“Tell them we’re in a relationship, tell them—Christ—“ Bruce grunted, wrangled a straining Claire against his chest. “Tell them we’ve been dating for a few weeks—before I bought out the Gazette.”

Ray’s fingers tapped across his phone. “Can I quote that?”

“THE HELL YOU CAN!” Claire’s face was bleated with crimson, green eyes teaming with terror. “BRUCE, STOP HIM!”

“Too late,” Ray concluded, raised the phone to his ear, scampered to the door of the hotel suite. “Call me when she calms down, I’ll address the masses.” He lifted his eyebrows, winced as Claire’s shoe launched just shy of his shoulder. “Good luck.”

Once Bruce was certain Ray was far enough away, he released Claire onto the couch, laying her thrashing body amid the cushions.

“Bruce, you are going to call him and revoke that statement, right now,” Claire wrestled upright, her knees braced on the couch, toes seeping into the cracks between the cushions. Her eyes were wide, her hands fisted in Bruce’s shirt.

“If you care about me, you’ll call him back—call him back, Bruce. Please,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never asked you for anything, but I’m asking you for this now—just this once, just this.”

“Claire, baby, please,” Bruce trailed his fingers over his chin, blue eyes dark. “The only way to repair the damage is to announce our relationship—show you as an asset.”

“No, Bruce—you can’t do this to me, to us. I’m not ready, you’re not ready.”

“Not ready for what, Claire? Commitment? Intimacy?” Bruce’s voice teetered through the suite. “You might not be ready for a relationship, but I am. Don’t tell me how I feel.”

“Oh, so you’re ready for a relationship? You?” Claire released a clipped laugh. “You’ve slept with half of Gotham’s elite, and I don’t see you slowing down anytime soon, do you? What about the other women? The heiresses? The models? You couldn’t go running back to them—not without chasing me away.”

“That’s what it boils down to?” Bruce lilted his hands on his hips, raised a hand to flit about the air. “I haven’t seen anyone but you in the past month, Claire! Is that not proof enough for you?”

“What about Christmas? What about the woman—the one in your office? How can I trust that won’t happen again?”

“You and I weren’t _dating!_ You kept blocking me out, pushing me away—just like now. When you’re on the precipice on intimacy, you cower away. You can’t hide from me, Claire, not this time.” His arms caged her into the couch, muscular arms barricading Claire’s kneeling form. “Comparing yourself to other women doesn’t justify your insecurities, it only estranges away the ones you love.”

“How can you say that?” Claire spat. “You dismiss my insecurities as easily as you dismiss the string of women you’ve _fucked._ Well, not me. I am not someone of momentary status that you can taint—“

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bruce yelled, his steely calm billowing into a formidable steam, fueled by Claire’s words. “I’ve never claimed your success! _You_ did that without me—I choose to be with you because you enchant me, Claire. Regardless of fame, I would still love you!” Bruce paused, closed his eyes. “I love you, Claire.”

Claire’s lips bobbled uncertainly, eyes brimming with tears.

“You don’t—you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to—to _lure_ me into your arms. I can’t trust you—“

“No, Claire. You can’t trust yourself,” Bruce said. “You won’t let go, and you refuse to allow yourself to feel. I know—I’ve been there, and you’ll never feel whole. Open to me, Claire—talk to me. For all there is to fear, we’ll conquer it together. All you have to do is trust me.”

Claire climbed the back of the couch, ambling out of Bruce’s arms.

“I can’t do this, Bruce—I can’t do this—“

“Yes, you can,” Bruce pressed. “Don’t run from this, Claire. Don’t repeat the same mistakes.”

Claire leapt over the back of the couch and fell to the floor, her arms quivered as she hoisted herself onto her feet, stumbled backward to the door.

She paused, tears moistened her cheeks, her chin. Her eyes devoured Bruce’s crystalline eyes, memorized the broadness of his shoulders, the determined set of his jaw.

_I can’t—I won’t._

“Good bye, Bruce.”

Claire snatched at the suite’s door, allowed it to clamber into the wall. She ran down the hall, a hand pasted over his lips to smother her despondent sobs.


	25. Out of Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:  
> 1) This story had been recieving an abundance of love lately! What's up with that?!  
> 2) Thank you for such love.  
> 3) My note for this chapter: MUAHAHHAHAHA  
> 4) After you read this chapter, you may have questions on several things. No worries, that was my intention! All good things... 
> 
> Enjoy!

Crusty eyes, a tattered notebook and a wrinkled plane ticket to Central City—such were the possessions of horrifically distraught Claire West.

After the fiasco at the summit, Claire staggered home. She wrought through the flocks of ravenous press, and back to Gotham. After several short stories surrounding the event, the Gotham Gazette met immeasurable heights of stardom, the citizens of the world hungering for the words of the woman that stole the billionaire playboy’s heart.

 _“A regular_ woman,” the tabloid called her.

 _“Temporary,”_ begged another.

Claire couldn’t stomach the headlines, the television.

And so, Claire turned to Wally.

“Just come here, ok?” His sympathetic voice chimed, his obvious eagerness oozing through the line. “Or, I can come there. It’ll only take a sec.”

Claire bent over the phone at her desk in the Gazette, hurled a flurry of words into the receiver: “No, no—seriously, don’t. That’s all I need,” she groaned. “Getting you involved.”

“Forget it! I could take ‘em!”

A silence stretched between the two. Claire’s spare fingers dashed away the tears that danced between her eyes.

“Please,” Wally whispered into the phone. “Escape for a while.”

“I—“ Her eyes surveyed her frazzled office: hustling reports, whirling printers. Her eyes hovered over a clipping tethered to a cork board: **PULTIZER WINNER DATES GOTHAM'S PRINCE.** She clenched her jaw, fisted the curling line of the phone in a fist. “You’re right.”

Danielle, of course, was discontented at Claire brief vacation. 7 days, she gulped. Claire merely stood resolute in Danielle’s office—arms crossed, mind heckling the tears that seemed to constantly spew down her cheeks.

 _Vacation?_ Claire snorted on her bench inside a shadowy, desolate Gotham airport. _More like a reprieve from hell._

Claire watched the neon numbers as the shimmed across the black screens of the airport. Another flight gone, another in transit. She gathered her notebook as the screen beckoned her flight. The lights to the boarding room flickered once, twice, then died completely. Claire paused in her tracks, flipped her head back to the airport screen. Once gleaming with numbers and flight times, the screen was now incoherent with static. Claire expediently scanned the airport: no attendants, no occasional passersby, no passengers waiting for her plane—except one.

_When did he get here?_

Hesitantly, Claire shuffled toward the lone man that sat across from her, his long, supple legs occupying the space before his chair. Sunglasses shielded his eyes, the light from the smart phone in his hand gleaming off the fathomless black lens.

“Excuse me?” Claire inquired gently, seeking assurance in the minuscule inclination of the stranger’s head. “Are you on the 11 o’clock flight to Central City?”

“Yeah,” the man said. “Must be a delay.”

Claire puffed out her cheeks, sagged her shoulders. “Must be—I just saw the boarding call flash on the screen, but now it’s…” She pointed bewilderedly screen.

“Just a delay, I’m sure,” the man said, cocked his head to the side. “Hey—don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Claire’s shoulders clenched. It was as though she were suddenly drenched in a dozen buckets of frigid water.

“I—I’m a writer,” Claire replied through the tight space between her clenched teeth. “Gazette.”

The man leaned forward in his seat, tilted his glasses to strain down the length of his nose.

“You know what—yeah—I know you! You’re that Claire West—the big journalist dating Bruce Wayne!” The man appraised her bemusedly. “What’re you doing riding coach, at night? Shouldn’t you be on a gold jet or somethin’?”

Claire’s cheeks seared with a hot, belligerent shade of crimson.  

Her lips stuttered with words left unuttered because someone grabbed her from behind, clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Miss West,” a woman’s voice intoned, accompanied by the ceaseless click-clacking of heels. Claire eyes strained to discern the figure that ambled toward her. The stranger blocking her lips wrangled her hands behind her back, drew something sleek, cool over her wrists. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”

Claire bobbled her head, squeals muffled against the pervasive hand the grappled her lips.

The woman stepped into view: a haughty woman with broad shoulders and ebony skin. Her brown eyes assessed Claire shrewdly, approvingly. The man Claire had spoken to leaped up from his chair and fell into stepped beside the woman arms drawn tightly to his sides. The woman gestured to the offender at Claire back. “Let her speak.”

In an instant the hand suffocating her lips fell, and Claire inhaled a wheezy breath.

“I swear,” Claire managed. “I haven’t done anything illegal.”

“Certainly not,” the woman said. “Your record is so clean, it nearly shines. That’s not the reason I’m here.” Her lips quirked into a contrary smirk. “You, Miss West, are being propositioned by the U.S government to fulfill a duty greater than yourself.”

“Why does this sound like the beginning of a 1920s army recruitment?” Claire rattled the restrained hands at her back. “Trust me, you don’t want me in battle.”

“All in a manner of speaking,” the woman said. “The war _I_ wage isn’t in some desert in the middle east—the battles _I_ fight are more… domestic.”

Claire stiffened in her captor’s arms. “In what context?”

“That’s for you to find out,” the woman said. “For now, we need to leave. Boys, move out.”

With that, the stout woman toddled away, leaving a fierce Claire struggling after her.

The man from earlier stepped in front of her and flashed her a smarmy.

“Hold still,” he warned and withdrew a black, square device from his suit pocket. Claire leapt back in her captor’s arms and winced as a shock reverberated through her neck, her body pulsating limply forward into the man’s outstretched arms.

***

“He’s a wholesome child,” Lex observed at Bruce’s shoulder, watching a randy Parker tumble around the floor, dinosaur figurines steadfastly devouring one another.

“Stubborn,” Bruce grunted, arched an eyebrow. “Compliments—from you? You must truly be desperate. How deep are you in?”

Lex sighed. “Financially, I’m comfortable. My reputation, however, suffers.”

“Opposing the Justice League prompts that,” Bruce said. “The press loves us, you need to adapt.”

Lex rolled his eyes.

“The only thing I desire to improve is my business relations. By rekindling a partnership with you, I get more business. My previous partnerships quite admire you.”

“I play the game,” Bruce said, inclined his head to Lex. “Speaking of which, I want what you have on Ra’s. That’s the foundation of our arrangement.”

“Of course,” Lex purred, lifted his ample hands to adjust the knot of his tie, anchoring it closer to his neck. “I was approached by his daughter a little over a year ago.”

“Talia?” Bruce recalled the memory of alley and the Joker to mind.

“Names are a powerful thing, Bruce,” Lex’s eyes slid to Mercy, who loomed behind Lex’s desk, steely eyes trained on Parker.

“Superstitious, are we?” Bruce’s eyebrows drew up in ironic amusement.

“Cautious,” Lex amended. “She approached me to ask for persuasion on Joker’s prison release. She funded the League of Freedom as a distraction to an underground dealing—billionaires, all funneling money to fund grassroots campaigns, protests. She said it would satisfy our checkbooks, promised conflict and outreach to innovative companies for weapons. I was one of those companies, of course. But, as it turns out, it was an elaborate hoax to distract the League from the Assassins’ involvement in the Joker’s trial.”

“How much did you pay for his release?” Bruce’s lip furrowed.

“Too much,” Lex grumbled. “She threatened to freeze my assets. With the Joker released, she knew you would take the bait to catch him, keep her from tracking his movements. She said her hands were full, a wedding.”

“A wedding? Talia?” Bruce grunted. “She would never marry.”

“The Demon Head is the one who married—a prophecy, or rather,” Lex waved a hand dismissively. “His new bride would allow him ancient power. With that power, he would come to the states, form an army. She said that they would ensure their backers were rewarded, but I don’t buy it.” Lex shuffled hands into his pockets, heaved a mournful sigh. “They’re coming—soon.”

Bruce’s eyes drifted over to his son, his bright, billowing curls. He cleared his throat, crossed his muscle branded arms over he expanse of his chest. “I defeated Ra’s once. I don’t anticipate him being a problem.”

Lex laughed in disbelief. “Don’t you understand? He has too many partners, radicals. Those invested in the League of Freedom are determined to end the League—a plausible cause.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“Surely, you can’t expect me to abandon my life mission,” Lex quirked an eyebrow, drew his lips into a smirk. “I want the League exterminated, but not at the price of my legacy.”

“Our legacies will wither with time,” Bruce said, ever-cynical. “Take one from Ra’s—he is evidence of a legacy that has failed repetitively. If there is a prophecy, Ra’s has adjusted it to suit his own interests.”

“And in those interests, he’ll win! We need a means of defeating him, outside of the Justice League.”

“Let me guess: It’s your new project,” Bruce said. “Whatever you create to take down Ra’s will inevitably fight the league. I won’t invest in machines that destroy metahumans.”

“Perhaps,” Lex said. “But you did agree on funding an investment—“

“That I agreed was subject to investigation,” Bruce called to Parker across the room and smiled as he ambled in Bruce’s direction, dinosaurs bulked in his arms. “I’ll send 10 million over for Prototype 3 tonight. My secretary will be in touch on conditions.”

Lex fastened scrutinizing eyes on Bruce. He hesitated before he raised his hand in offering. The pair shook hands, each calculating the other.

“I will create a weapon against him, Bruce. With your support, or without it.”

“And the League will be there to stop it,” Bruce grinned. “Good luck, Lex.”

“Up! Up, Daddy!” Bruce hefted his insistent son into his arms and disembarked the room. Lex Luthor watched as they retreated, his eyes fastened on the redhead nestled in Bruce’s arms.

“Mercy, make the calls. Undergo construction on Legasus 5.”


	26. A News Break

“Miss West, can you hear me?”

“Miss West?”

Claire vision swam in a variety of reds and blacks. In between the colors, she could discern faces—stern, unyielding. Their mouths bobbled in conversation, each head bent forward as the assessed… Assessed something…

She blinked, and suddenly the assessing faces resonated all too clearly. The woman from earlier loomed across a table, her piercing eyes puncturing through the dimly lit room. Armed soldiers surrounded the table, all attention feasted on a drowsy, incoherent Claire. Claire lifted a quivering hand to her neck and straightened in her chair, battling the onslaught of nausea that coerced through her head.

“Why… does everyone… insist on poking me with things against my will?” Claire muttered, voice heavy.

The woman across the table merely smirked.

“Perhaps, if you showed more willingness to adhere to commands…”

“No one ever gives me the chance!” Claire lurched forward in her chair slammed a hand atop the smooth surface of the table. “Who are you? And why am I here?” She raised a finger before the stout woman could speak. “And don’t give me your propagandist speech—I want truth.”

“Amicable,” the woman said, crossed her pudgy fingers atop the table. “I am Amanda Waller, the director of an off-the-grid military initiative supervised by the U.S government. I oversee multiple functions, including that of a genetic experimental project under the name Cadmus.”

“Cadmus,” she continued. “Is designed to undermine the Justice League and its affiliates, should the need never arise. The U.S government has supple evidence that leads to the incrimination of the Justice League on an alternate Earth.”

“An alternate earth?” Claire squawked. “Surely you realize how ridculous that sounds.”

Waller reclined in her chair, her eyes fastened on Claire. “Be that as it may, Miss West, we have a testimony from Superman himself. In another reality, the Justice League ruled the planet under a tyrannical dictatorship, and call themselves the Justice Lords.”

“And what would prompt such behavior?” Claire asked, her reporter’s instinct unfurling. “Up until this point, we have no inkling to find this behavior plausible.”

“A multi-million dollar nuclear dollar weapon looming over our heads isn’t proof? Miss West, they could fire on us any time, without warning—and you don’t think that’s justification enough for a contingency plan?”

“They would never do that!” Claire insisted. “The League has a conscious, community. They’d never allow themselves to succumb to their emotions.”

“Even if one of their own were murdered?”

The room was swathed in an eerie silence, a chill slowly roving its fingers over Claire’s spine.

Waller deadpanned, her voice brass: “Even the mighty fall, Miss West—no matter how quickly they run.”

Claire’s emerald eyes narrowed, the slightest twinge of moisture probing at the outskirts of her eyelids.

“That’s right,” Waller chimed, a slight smirk drudging across her lips. “I know everything about you and your brother—and for that matter, the very man that’s landed you across every tabloid in America.”

Claire barked out a laugh. “If you truly knew everything then you’d know that we aren’t speaking—I broke it off in Metropolis. Whatever Bruce is involved in, I want no part in.”

Waller’s eyes glinted—curious. She flexed her folded fingers.

“So, you don’t know?” She laughed—crisp, blunt. “Bruce Wayne is just full of surprises.”

Claire—vein roiling, veins at her temple throbbing—sighed irritably. “Look—you know Wally. So whatever blackmail you have planned, let’s just cut straight to it.”

“Why, Miss West, I would never use your family against you—even I know boundaries,” Waller said. “What I need from you is an endorsement.”

“I have no money—“

“Surely, you know the endorsement I speak about—the written one.” Waller rose from her chair, stepped behind it. She pointed to a screen that canvassed the White House. Heroes flew about it, ravaging protestors. Police fired guns at innocents, Wonder Woman shattered a window. The scene changed—Lex Luthor stood behind a wooden desk, Superman looming before him. Superman’s eyes glowed with a fiery crimson. Fire snaked out from his eyes, and into a screaming Lex Luthor.

Claire lurched in her chair, grasped the padded armrests.

_Superman would never! This can’t be real!_

“The Justice Lords,” Waller said gravelly. “I need your help in preventing this, to boost the government image. The people must trust the U.S government and you, I believe, hold the key in steering their beliefs.”

“I write about superheroes!” Claire squealed. “Do you realize how insane this sounds? I _promote_ Batman! Being a vigilante, taking the law into your own hands—that’s what _I sell!_ Besides, who wants to read the words of a sell out?” Claire wrought her hands over her forehead, hunched into her grasp. “My integrity is gone.”

“Quite the contrary,” Waller said “People want to read your work now more than ever.” Waller threw her palms onto the table, drilled her gaze into Claire. “By dating Bruce Wayne, you have propelled yourself into a seat of power unlike any other. With your talent and reputation, you are a force to be reckoned with.”

“I just want it all to disappear!” Claire threw her hands in the air, lifted from her chair. “I just want Bruce to revoke the statement—to say it’s over, finished. I want to return my work to the way it used to be—meaningful. Now—now my words are empty.”

“Only because you have not embraced a new beat!” Waller insisted. “Try something new Claire, shake it up. Endorse Luthor on his presidential bid—his future dealings with the League. Propel him into a seat of power—to prevent the dictatorship of a group of authoritarian metahumans.”

Claire merely gaped, hands warped in in her shirt.

“I’ve watched you,” Waller sighed. “One of the greatest journalist the world’s ever known—and now, look at you. Wrecked by romance. Is that really who you are, Miss West? Is that who Uncle Barry would have wanted you to be?”

Claire’s emerald eyes morphed to lasers, beaming through Waller’s head.

“Don’t you dare,” she grit.

“He’d be ashamed, you know. The child he raised, turned up to be fragile, _weak—“_

“SHUT UP!” Claire stalked around the table and thrust a fist in Waller’s face, eyes teaming with rage. “Don’t you ever speak about my uncle—you didn’t know him, _you didn’t know him!”_

“That’s right, West, fight me,” Waller urged, waved off the herd of guards that flocked to her side. “Turn your rage into strength, words! Do—”

Red sirens blasted through the room, prompting a hoard of guards to stream into through the doors of the small, selective room.

“Ms. Waller, ma’am—the Squad has escaped.”

“Barre the doors! Secure the other cells in Arkham—nobody else escapes!” Waller barked, squinted at the guards as the furrowed about the room. She whirled to address Claire, her brown eyes wide. She jabbed a finger to the door located behind the table, a siren blazing atop it. “If anyone manages to enter this room, leave through that door and run! Understood?”

“YOU TOOK ME TO ARKHAM?” Claire yelled in disbelief. “ARE YOU INSANE?”

Clatter erupted against the door to the conference room. Waller barred an arm over Claire’s chest, corralling the journalist behind her. Bullets whizzed against the walls—over Claire’s head, around her feet.

“Now, West!” Waller yelled.

But Claire needed little warning, for the journalist fled. Her legs sought purchase in each leap she made, her chest rumbling with exhaustion, fatigue.

 _Gym membership—what happened to the gym membership?_ She agonized, continuing her trek through long, vacant halls teeming with flashing sirens.

As Claire met a staircase, she keeled over, staking her body against a metal wall. Her open mouth bobbled against her arm, which was staked across her lips, her nose. Anything to calm her body—to regather a semblance of normalcy.

Claire, driven by the encroaching rubber intonation of boots, darted down the stairwell, her sweaty palms slithering against the railing. Her foot caught on the stair, sending Claire into a topsy-turvy freefall down the stairwell. Claire reached a hand to clasp the railing, urging her body to cease its hazardous roil into oblivion. She raised her other arm, and hung from the railing as though a possum to a tree branch, her face—battered by her tumble down the stairs—tucked into the crook of her arm.

 _I’M NOT EVEN AN INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST, AND THIS IS WHAT LIFE DEALS ME,_ Claire thought, chest quivering from exertion. _I KNEW I SHOULD’VE DONE BROADCAST._

The building erupted with a series of tremors. Each shock echoed through the stair chamber, ratcheted off the steel walls.

Claire hauled herself up from under the railing to stand, eyes surveying the stairwell. The footfalls from before were lost in the eruptions, and Claire’s gaze pinpointed on the object that caused her to fumble. Rather, _person._ Claire embarked to his figure carefully, her trembling fingers wrapping around his wrist: _Silence._ Gunshots permeated his chest, his Arkham patrol hat askew his head. Claire gagged, a hand looming over her mouth.

How cruel—a man doing his job had to be subjected to such brutality, criminals. If only Batman would’ve known—if anyone would’ve known…

“If we go this way, we can meet the others out front,” a male voice said.

There were a few grunts, the scratchy-metallic whisper of an opening door.

Palms sweaty, Claire fumbled away from the fallen guard. Her fingers scurried for the gun encased in his grasp.

 _Quickly, quickly, quickly!_ Claire secured the gun in both hands and simpered down the stairs, fleeing for the exit door in the distance. As soon as Claire pushed the bar to the exit, a mighty quake stirred the building, Claire’s skull rattling against door. She pushed on the handle—back to the door, free hand scrambling for purchase—but the door remained closed, locked.

“Now, I get the feelin’ you ain’t no prisoner.” The male voice from before paused before Claire’s distraught figure. His skin was black, one eye cased in metal—a sort of gleaming, red eye. A scope? In his arms he adorned a gruesome weapon—a gun large enough to exterminate an fiend.

Next to the man was a taller companion, his skin warped with scales. The scales stretched over his eyes, his mouth, and his hands that peaked beneath his orange jumpsuit. He growled in Claire’s direction, raised his teeth to reveal yellow incisors.

_Killer Croc and Deadshot? Oh, great._

Claire—ever exasperated, contrary—rolled her eyes, despite the agony that rattled through the back of her skull. “Gee, what was your first clue, Terminator?”

Deadshot laughed, leveled with weapon on Claire’s level.

“Well, aren’t you just cute?” He cocked the gun, pointed it at her head. “Too bad I ain’t got time to fuck with you.”

Killer Croc roared in agreement, ground his knuckles into one another.

Claire mind flashed to the barred door, to the gun in her fist and the scaly creature. Summoning the spirit of her brother, Claire dashed, clicking the safety off the gun and aiming it at the pair’s feet. She rocketed to the side, knees quivering.

Deadshot leveled his gun to the door, and Killer Croc rocketed against the metal fastenings of the door, scarcely missing Claire’s legs. In a moment, the door squealed open, sparks dancing in the villain’s wake.

Claire ducked under the Croc’s body and plummeted into the night. Brick walls surrounded either side of long, rectangular courtyard. Sirens wailed along the walls, and bullets sailed at Claire’s feet.

Behind her, Deadshot cursed, hot on Claire’s flank.

 _One shot and I’m done, one shot and I’m done, one shot and I’m done—_ Claire thoughts broke with her own terrified screams. A bullet skimmed Claire’s calf, launching the journalist to the ground. As she hit, Claire tried to aim her gun, pitifully aiming it into the darkness.

“Maybe you’re a prisoner after all!” Deadshot rang. “Unfortunately, your sentence is up.”

“Sooo unoriginal,” Claire rasped, raising a finger in Deadshot’s direction—just one. Deadshot kicked away the gun from Claire’s trembling hand, a grin contorting his lips.

Claire braced herself for the sting—the mighty, immortal bullet. But, somehow, it never came.

No, instead, the gun in Deadshots grasp clattered to the ground, deterred by the launching of a metal disc in the shape of a bat.

Batman threw himself in front of Claire, swooping in on an invisible zipline. His elbow clashed into Deadshot’s neck, pummeled against his chest.

Claire—heart racing, a triumphant smile coloring her lips—whipped her body to the side, her fingers seeking solace in the coolness of her gun. Small explosions ruptured on either side of the courtyard, and Killer Croc pummeled into the outermost wall. Before he could gain any more ground, an electric force buzzed through the air, striking him in the back. Shouts funneled through the courtyard.

 _I will not be a Lois Lane, I will not be a Lois Lane…._ Claire wrought herself into a crouch, gun wobbling in her grasp. A shadowy figure approached her—menacing, looming.

“Don’t come near me,” she growled, eyes bleary. “I’ll shoot you where you stand—I swear!”

_Oh, god that sounds so Clint Eastwood-y._

“Claire, lower the gun,” a raspy voice demanded. The bleary figure before her clutched its shoulder.

‘Batman?” Claire blinked several times, desperate to clear her head. The blurry film covering her eyes cleared, allowing her to absorb the Kevlar-adorned hero of her stories. His chisled jaw was christened with scratches, grime. Behind him, moans erupted—no doubt from Deadshot and his associates. Claire looked up to see guards, each one hustling into the courtyard, guns brandished in their hands.

“We don’t have much time.” Batman grunted as he lightened his free hand to his belt. In moments, the Batmobile crashed through the Arkham courtyard, a stream of brick left of its havoc. The vehicle beeped as it neared, the roof thrust back to reveal two crisp leather seats. “Get in.”

“I don’t see the point,” Claire argued. “The police are here—they’ll take me home.”

“You honestly think Waller is going to let you walk away unquestioned?” Batman leered at Claire through his cowl, propelled himself into the Batmobile. “We’re wasting time.”

Claire’s eyes latched on the red sirens wailing through the lawn, the stirring figures of Deadshot and Killer Croc. Slowly, she ambled to the car and struggling to leap into the seat. Batman reached out and secured an arm around Claire’s chest, gently lifting her into the car.

Claire gaped at the glowing buttons and screens. Her mouth gaped at the array of gadgets, her fingers hungering toward the steering wheel.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You’re injured! It’s a hazard to drive,” Claire said. “Hence, I should.”

“You barely recognized me with your vision. You’re traumatized and more than likely suffering from a concussion. It’s not happening.”

Batman pressed a button, closed the hood to the Batmobile and grappled the steering wheel, peeling out of the Arkham courtyard.

“Buzzkill,” Claire muttered and turned to sulk out the window, the encroaching towers of Gotham blurring outside her window.


	27. Turbulence

Nights, Claire learned, were a sacred thing. Full of stars, and silence and solemnity. Through a taxi window, she could see the buildings whirl by, the solemn high rises of Gotham blending into the night, beckoning to the creatures that dare cross their breadth.

Through the window of the Batmobile, however, she could barely discern a building from oblivion.

Lamp posts, streetlights, highways – each ran into the next, marred by tinted glass.

Nails like talons as they burrowed into a leather seat, Claire scrunched her eyes shut.

“How can you even _see_?” She spat between clenched teeth.

The driver chuckled and the car jerked to the side, tossing Claire against the icy window.

_I will not throw up, I will not throw up…_

She nuzzled her cheek against the glass, reveling in its glacial solace.

 “Put on a seatbelt.”

“I’m not a child,” she whined petulantly. Her eyes creaked open to peer into the night once more. After the tipsy reception from her stomach, she abruptly closed them again.

“I hope you’re taking me home,” she gulped. “I need out of this death contraption.”

“Not a chance,” he said. “You have a concussion—”

“Yeah, and your driving is steadily curing that,” she snapped. “Look, flash me your medical degree, then I’ll buy your diagnosis. In the meantime, home is that way.” She jabbed her hand to the flank of the car.

When the car refused to turn, Claire ground and shrunk into her chair.

“WHY DOES NO ONE LISTEN TO ME? JUST ONCE?”

“Yelling won’t change my mind,” Batman remarked, the speed of the vehicle abruptly escalating.

“Hey, Dr. BM – a little less commentary, more driving.”

“BM?” Even the Batman couldn’t disguise the amusement in his voice.

“BM – Bowel movement. Painful, irritating, sudden, grating – all adjectives that describe you.”

He chuckled – a deep, resonant sound.

It was a familiar rumble – rich, like sweet, molten chocolate. It drifted through Claire’s ears, settled in her stomach.

So familiar… Her heart fluttered in contempt at a memory, a laugh, a billionaire’s toothy smile.

 _Her_ billionaire _._

In spite of herself, Claire opened her eyes and peered at the knight beside her. His chin, chiseled, defined, was silhouetted in the shadows of the vehicle. The slightest hint of stubble probed along his cheeks – a bristly garden as hardened as it’s master’s.

Ironic, she’d never noticed if he shaved before. In memory, she couldn’t recall. Shrewd in her observation, she leaned closer.

Batman’s eyes slid to her beneath his cowl, hinted by a silver gleam. With a snap light immersed the car, temporarily sending Claire fumbling back into her seat.

As she turned to gripe, her sights trickled to the front window, a scream spiraling through the car.

“THAT’S A WALL, THAT’S A WALL,” she shrilled.

With a smirk, the Dark Knight accelerated, her journey into the night accompanied by Claire’s terrified shrieks.

As the vehicle loomed closer, the cave shattered apart, a cavernous orifice swallowing it into oblivion.

Mouth bobbling, Claire peaked behind her and marveled at the stream of red lights the glowed along the sharp rocks. 

“Somehow, I don’t think you’re taking me home.”

“Not tonight,” he agreed, one hand gliding his contraption through the dark.

Claire lifted a weary brow, cleared her throat.

“Y-You’re not going to turn me into a vampire, right?”

Batman stifled a laugh before the vehicle wretched to an abrupt stop, Claire nearly plummeting through the windshield. Bracing her hands against the glass, she groaned.

“Seatbelt,” he chided.

The driver’s side door shuttered open. Through the windshield, Claire saw a flitter of black and shivered as hands suctioned against her hips, eased her into solid, muscular arms.

Against her better judgement, she sighed into his embrace, relishing the refuge of her hero, her knight. To be held and loved after estranging Bruce was a welcome comfort.

In Batman’s arms, she could imagine Bruce’s around her – at her waist, under her breasts, braced beneath her slumbering head. The memory struck her like ice – glacial, terrifying, cold. Claire’s hands folded into fists against Batman’s Kevlar-sculpted chest.

“I’m not a toddler,” she grumbled, furrowed brow casted shadows over her eyes.

His head inclined to the woman folded in his arms. His bold, conquering walk paused. His lips – so unerringly stoic, cryptic – quivered. Lines of worry peaked beneath his cowl.

Claire merely shrunk in his grasp, her head overcoming by numbing waves of fatigue. Her eyes, fluttering beneath the onslaught of massive, obsidian caress of sleep.

“Why… why are looking at me like that?” she said, voice crackling like tires against gravel.

Beneath her, movement resumed, the arms swaddled her renewed as they grasped at her shoulders, waist.

With a small, squeaky yawn, Claire’s head clonked against the Dark Knight’s chest. She raised a hand to caress the Kevlar, riddle with the divots between sculpted muscle.

As she drifted, he spoke to her. His voice, lacking the rich, raspy bass is usually held, drifted away. In its stead was a rich, sultry tenor, smooth like whiskey as it burned through her ears:

“I’ll take always take care of you, Claire,” he said. “If only you’d let me.”


	28. Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for spice.
> 
>    
> *edited: 5/7 @ 3 a.m. -- Improved, trust me on this.

She moaned at the hands that brushed her shoulders, roved over her chest. They were rough, calloused, but teeming with generosity. Each touch was like being swathed in a blanket – soft, comforting. Claire leaned into the fleeing touches, one wary hand locking around a knobby wrist.

“If this is what being a vampire is like, I’m in,” she whispered, her head setting back on her neck. “Are the coffins lined in satin?”

“Silk,” A deep, bristly voice replied.

Claire's eyebrows drew taut over her eyes before they shuttered open. Water rose to her naked waist, tinted red and brown from the aftermath of abductions and explosions. She lifted a soggy hand to her forehead, probing along the gauze that trickled across her skin.

“Concussion,” the voice said, startling Claire from her stupor. “Minor bleeding.”

Batman stood shamelessly before her, Kevlar shrouding his massive frame. His hands, however, were delightfully bare. His fingers were defined, familiar and intimate as they danced along Claire’s skin.

Her _naked_ skin.

She shrieked and hunkered down into the water, her back thrashes against the steel tub.

“WHAT THE HELL,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”

She snorted, covered her breasts with her right arm, and held up a scolding finger with her left. “Don’t answer that – you fight crime as a dressed as a bat!”

Batman smirked, gestured to the rag dangling on the corner of the tub.

“Are you going to let me finish?” 

“No, you creep,” she snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of bathing myself.”

He snorted and reached a hand behind Claire to prop her head against the basin. His hand traced a cloth around her chest, shimmed down her stomach.

“I am absolutely mortified,” she groaned, squeezing a hand through her damp hair.

“You’re wounded, any nurse would do the same.”

“I’m sorry – now you’re an RN? Are you just pulling these degrees out your ass?”

He exhaled, the slightest chuckle lingering on his breath. As the cloth traced her thighs, Claire diligently watched his hands – so gentle, so assured. Despite her vulnerability, he manipulated her body with a practiced ease.

Confident and experienced. And not unlike a certain man she knew.

She sighed and captured his hand, brought it to her face. She examinined the rudimentary callouses and long, dexterous fingers. The pad of his hand slid beneath her fingertips, and thrummed against her skin.

 “For someone so menacing, you certainly navigate with kindness,” she said, the tiniest hint of jealously coloring her tone.

His hand stiffened in hers, his smirk melting into a frown

 “So your secret identity must be a cunning doctor – chivalrous, attractive. Let me guess – Gynecologist?”

“Gynecologist?”

“It makes sense –the mundane nature of your career leads you to fulfil other outlets. Not that I blame you,” she giggled, her fingers tickled along his palm. “Does it get boring down there?”

“Your imagination gets the best of you,” he said as he pried his hand from hers.

“Maybe so, maybe no,” she said. “How is it that you touch so many lives, Bats? What makes you do it, do _this_? Surely you have better things to do on a Saturday night than hunt down villains and bathe unsuspecting women.”

He reached for a white, fluffy towel and drained the water from the tub. Claire watched the whirpools as they funneled down the drain.

“I could ask the same of you – what prompts a writer to be kidnapped by a covert government organization?”

 “I was trying to escape,” Claire muttered. “And Waller found me. I’d never heard of her, never seen her, but there she was.” Her eyes drifted to his. “You know why she captured me.”

He squared his jaw, and hesitated, seemingly tasting his words before he let them crawl off his tongue.

 “I have suspicions,” he replied stoically. “Lex Luthor is running for office. He needs endorsements. Ones that will draw attention.”

“And she figured I was the perfect sellout to do it,” she said. “She’s not wrong. I dated… I dated my boss. And not just any boss, no, I dated Bruce fucking Wayne – prince of Gotham, one of the richest men in the world. And look where that got me.” She gestured loosely Batman’s direction.

When Batman didn’t immediately reply, she continued, gesticulating wildly before her.

“And what’s more, he kept a secret from me. Waller mentioned – she mentioned – being surprised, baffled by my ignorance. About something Bruce never told me. He sought to ruin my integrity, but he never thought to tell me about his. Who would work for ARGUS, on projects that neutralize heroes? What is he thinking?”

“He wanted to protect you,” he said, shoulders unusually hunched. “He knew you’d figure things out on your own.”

Claire narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, so I can figure that out on my own, but not my own damn career? What was so wrong with not revealing our relationship to the press? Why was our secret not good enough?” She cinched the towel tighter around her shoulders and drew her lips into a sneer. “God, you sound just like him, you know that? If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were exchanging notes.”

Claire’s hand darted out to recapture his. She thoughtfully twirled it in her grasp, stitched her fingers between his.

“Your hands are even similar,” she said. “Except, he has this scar on his right hand. Whenever I… Whenever I’d hold him, I’d feel it. Right along the side, along here…”

Her finger roved over the side of his hand and felt a puckered scar. She glanced down with a surprised gasp, and her eyebrows drew toward her nose.

“Coincidence,” she thought aloud.

“Claire,” Batman said, the tenor of his voice changing, evolving. Claire’s head whipped up to see his free hand press a button at his belt. She flinched.

“Bats, no more needles—“

“No more boundaries,” he said as his hands slid to his cowl, which he lifted slightly. Several clasps flipped at the back of his neck, followed by a metallic shriek. As he pulled it upward, tendrils of ebony unfurled along his neck. Claire could discern the corded muscle of his throat, his back. Even his jaw was more defined, sharper when separated from his cowl.

And as her sights manuvered upward, she saw a pair of familiar blue eyes. Deep and hypnotic, they painted across the canvas of her face, eager to interpret her response.

Claire’s hands dropped to her lap with a sloppy _plop!_

_He’s always been there._

_In the alley, at my apartment, our reporting – when I thought he was wrong, he was… No, no, no._

He lifted his palms outward, attempted to calm the tropical storm raging across Claire’s face. Dark circles swathed under his eyes, the sign of endless, sleepless nights.

 _Because of me,_ she thought. _Because of me._

“I’ve missed you, Claire.”

“You missed me,” the words were delayed on her tongue, slow.

Bruce’s trademark smirk dangled at the edge of his lips – the same lips she’d kissed as Batman; the same lips she’d always known.

“You. Miss. Me. Wow.” She stuttered, appalled. “You unveil yourself as Batman – and the cave, and the car, and our problems and – and you, you miss me? That’s the first thing you say? I just—I need a moment here.”

Her eyes slid to Bruce’s. Lost, befuddled, wary.

She sat, he sat. Silence.

His jaw hitched once, twice. Something flashed in Claire’s eyes, and Bruce straightened, a predatory authority driving into his voice.

“Claire, listen to me—“

With a scream, Claire darted from the tub, and wrapped the towel around her bodice. As she secured it, she threw open a door and launched into the Batcave.

Her eyes frantically shifted between the control panel – flashing with neon colors and stats – and the batmobile.

_Options, options…_

“Claire, don’t be stupid,” Bruce/Batman/jackass billionaire called from behind her. Claire whirled to face him, her eyes wide.

She glanced once to the motorcycle behind the batmobile: obsidian, daunting, powerful. _Fast._ Fast enough to take her away – to get help – to –

“I’ll catch you,” he warned, blue eyes alive with amusement.

_Be like Wally, be like Wally, be like Wally!_

With sweaty palms, she flew for the bike. Her bare, wet feet slapped against the cave floor, echoed off the jagged rocks. She ran, and ran, and when she reached the bike, she sought to hoist herself over the seat.

Hands suctioned around her waist and drew her bare back against the bike’s seat. The abruptness caught her off guard, and summoned stars to the back of her eyes. She groaned as Kevlar shielded thighs pinned her to the contraption, affording her no escape.

She wriggled and writhed and pounded her fists against his chest.

“You bastard, fuckass, asshole! I hate you! _I HATE YOU!”_ She screamed. “He was never supposed to be you! Never! He was my _hero._ A dejected one, but _MINE!_ But it was _you!_ It was always you and I—“

Bruce’s hands wound around her thighs and wrapped them around his waist. His weight straddled the bike as Claire hissed beneath him, eyes brimming with bitter tears.

Her towered over her, his face mere inches from hers.

“You were always mine to protect,” he snarled between clenched teeth. “We need each other, Claire. Can’t you see that?”

“I’m not yours to control, Bruce,” she hissed. “I don’t care who you are _,_ or what you’ve done for this city, _you don’t own me_.”

A feral grin leapt across Bruce’s face. One hand securing her thigh to his waist, the other snaked up to fondle the back of her head and burrow into her hair.

His lips collided ardently against hers. With wide, open-mouthed waves, he drew her lips into a frenzy. Crash after crash, Claire fell into his spell. She reached up to clutch the back of his neck, to pull herself closer.

She wanted to fight him – to scream, to cry, to lash out, but she couldn’t. He’d ensnared her at last and Claire, starved and weak as she was, relinquished herself to his temptation.

Her nails slashed along his neck – wrangling him closer, closer. Her hips bucked against his, craving that sultry friction.

Summoning inspiration from her zeal, Bruce’s hand sought purchase beneath her waist.

Claire’s eyes, scrunched to slits with passion, burst to life as his fingers swirled intimately, deliciously inside her. Soft moans quivered from her lips.

“We need to t-talk,” she gasped against him, her eyes rolling to the ceiling in pleasure.

“Mmm,” he groaned, and shifted his fervor to her neck, suckling her flesh with soothing kisses. “This suffices as conversation.”

He delved further within and curled his finger to rub against her inner walls.

“Bruce, Bruce please – “ Moans overthrew her pleas. “I don’t – not here—you asshole. I…”

“It doesn’t matter where I take you,” he growled and shifted his lips to her ear. His heady breath against her lured her deeper into his trance. “I own everything, Claire.”

He moved his fingers again, swirled them.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “N-Not here…”

“Yes,” he said. “You’ll come when I demand it.”

She growled in dissention before ratcheting into a stream of curses, her body pulsating beneath his touch.

“No,” she hissed.

“No?” He grinned against the hollow of her ear. “Swallow your pride, West. You’re mine, I’m yours – this is meant to be. Take the pleasure.”

She cried against his fingers and shuddered, her head cradling in the nook of his neck.

“Now,” he growled.

“No!”

He nibbled her neck and quickened the intensity of his fingers.

“My patience wans, Claire. _Now_.”

“ _Fuck you!”_ She screamed as her body whimpered beneath Bruce’s touch. Her body ignited – a tireless fire that raged, and raged, until she sagged beneath her hero. Devastated and wary, Claire lifted her bandaged head and sought Bruce’s eyes.

“I-I missed you,” she whispered, laughing as Bruce’s hand lifted to her chin to support her veering head.

Her blue eyes sparkled with glee, his Kevlar-bound body hovering over hers, swallowing her whole.

“Sleepy, baby,” he whispered, his thumb etching invisible circles about her jaw. “Sleep.”


	29. Off the Rails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is.... This is all the triggers. Trust me on this one.
> 
> Please comment on this one, even if you don't usually comment. Dying to hear feedback, especially on this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Long time, no see,” the Green Arrow mused, blonde hair ruffled from an earlier tussle with Black Canary. She winked in Batman’s direction and grabbed a water bottle as she fled the watchtower’s training room.

“Batman,” she said cooly.

“Dinah.”

Arrow watched her retreating form and released a slow exhale.

“Something about a woman,” Batman remarked, trademark smirk slicking his lips.

“Just that one,” Arrow said, whistled. “Still hard to believe she’s mine.”

Batman grunted, crossed his arms over his chest.

“Remember Strombol?”

“Luthor’s lackey?” He wiped his fingers on the green towel dangling around his neck. “The guy with the demons?”

“Right,” Batman said. “He died in a holding cell last night.”

“Is that so?” He huffed. “Did Waller get him to squeal?”

Batman fixed him with a stare, eyes burning through his cowl.

“Wouldn’t tell you if she did, right?”

“She told me what she could,” he said. “ARGUS still frowns on the league.”

“No matter how many times we save their asses…” He threw his hands into the air, snorted. “Go figure.”

“Strombol slipped into depraved ramblings before he died,” Batman reiterated curtly. “Waller didn’t say so directly, but it was an inside job. They detained the murderer.”

“Inside Argus?” Arrow’s eyes widened beneath his mask. “What did he say before he died?”

“Same as when you captured him. Beasts, demons, murder, blood. Whatever organization Luthor recruited him from scared him. We need to find out who they are.”

“I guess asking Lex would be out of the question?”

Batman cleared his throat, shifted.

“Something you’d like to share will the class?”

“I already dealt with him. Gotham business.”

“And you didn’t tell the League?” Arrow scoffed. “Bruce, what if someone finds out you were withholding information from the team? I hear that’s frowned upon, you know. Even for you.”

“Gotham comes first,” Batman said curtly. “Ra’s is after the Joker. With Talia and the assassins in Gotham he could act remotely.”

Recognition flashed in the Bruce’s eyes.

“The Demon Head,” the vigilantes recited in unison.

“He’s in Gotham with renewed purposed,” Batman said, the thought chewing through his mind.

“Ra’s is trying to eliminate the League,” Arrow said.

“No, it runs deeper than that,” he said. “He’s probing me. He needs something from me, something that would aide in eliminating the League.”

“Just a stab in the dark here – but any clue to why that is?”

“Besides smearing his legacy and protecting Gotham? Can’t imagine why,” he retorted, sardonic as ever.

“You don’t think the Ra’s has something to do with Claire, do you?”

“No,” he growled. “That’s low, even for him. He dealt with the Joker for something else.”

“It’s a possibility,” Batman seared the Arrow with a rancid glare. “Think about it, Bruce. He eliminated Claire through a third party, set you up to leave the League. In your absence, crime spirals out of control, protests hit the nation. You really think that’s a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I, which is exactly why you need to think clearly. You’re the genius, remember? Claire jades you. If you want to figure this out, you need to clear your head. You need a distraction.”

Batman snorted.

Arrow raised his hands innocently. “Blow off some steam, crash a party, read a book – put her memory on the shelf. If you want to tackle the League of Assassins you need clarity and a kickass partner.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Gotham business.”

“Not when he potentially funds terrorists groups and recruits multi-million dollar corporations. The people are rallying, Bruce. You’ll need help,” he said.

“Fine,” Batman snarled. “But no one else knows until I develop a solid lead. Help fight the fires, and keep your head low. Avoid Superman.”

“And what about J’onn?” Arrow chided. “He reads minds.”

“Not mine.” He turned, waved to Arrow over his shoulder. “I’ve got Watchtower duty. Take it easy. Let Dinah catch some rest.”

“You know me too well,” Oliver called and exited behind him, switching off the lights.

***

Bruce rarely slept at the watchtower, but when he did it was to prepare for extended periods of unrest. If Arrow’s words held any merit, Bruce was in for a cumbersome investigation. Ra’s always hid his tracks, and he hid them well. For him to be so sloppy, allowing Talia to encounter Batman in the alley, he was reaching for Bruce’s attention. Ra’s had a plan – and somehow, it involved diverting Bruce’s focus.

And he couldn’t afford distractions – not now.

The door to his chambers slid open. Bruce entered the white room, shuffled a file to the desk table.

His bed – ruffled from a prior visit – crooked a beckoning finger in his direction, purred.  

_“Forget her. Forget Gotham.”_

Despite the tempurpedic accommodations of his bed at home, Bruce found the tower’s simple bed oddly embracing. For one, it was a place her memory never touched, caressed. When he slept, his mind fought against her likeliness, her smell, her touch.

Here, he was always alone.

Slowly, Bruce began the process of shedding his armor. Piece by piece, he positioned his obsidian uniform on the platform in the closet, sealed the chamber.

Clad in briefs, he strode toward the bath adjourning his chambers. He clasped the towel bar attached to the wall. In an effortless pull, he yanked the rack from its roots and swirled on his heel, readily pinning it against the figure behind him.

Wonderwoman’s wrists propelled the bar with a fierce clank. Her steely eyes sought his, her lips teeming with a mischievous smile.

“What gave me away?”

“Heart rate,” Bruce replied. “It’s stronger than a human’s. Loud.”

“Funny, I don’t hear that every day,” she remarked.

“What do you want, Diana?” Bruce allowed the bar to clatter to the floor and made for a small closet. He pulled a white shirt from the rack, shimmed the fabric over his head.

“You’re up to something,” she said. “And I want to know why you aren’t telling the Justice League. Your admittance is contingent on your ability to function as part of the team. You aren’t fulfilling their duty.”

“And you are?” Bruce retorted. “Where do you draw the line? Goddess lineage or not, you’re no better than the rest of us. Don’t pretend to not safeguard your own interests.”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “But I know when you catch a trail, Bruce. If it affects the League, we need to know. Immediately.”

“What you mean to say is that _you_ need to know.” He crossed his arms over his bulky chest, narrowed his eyes. “Nice try.”

A sultry smile writhed across her stunning face. Her crystal eyes glittering the chamber’s dimmed lights. She stepped once in his direction.

“Working alone never fairs well for you, Bruce,” she said, a long leg itching closer.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” His eyes flickered briefly down to her chest before recapturing her gaze.

“Don’t you?” She purred. She positioned a silken mass of ebony over her shoulder, tilted her chin. In one swift movement, she launched herself at Bruce, a hand slithering under his shirt.

“So much for Amazons loathing men,” he said, stoically appraising the woman before him.

Wonderwoman batted her eyes, trickled a hand down his chest.

“As if this is our first encounter,” she mewled. “You wouldn’t soon forget me, would you?”

Her hand slithered further still, traveling to cup the hardening budge within his briefs.

“Face it, Bruce, you’re lonely,” she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his clothed chest. He inhaled sharply, his pupils expanding as he devoured the willing woman fondling his cock.

At the corner of his mind the images of the women he previously entertained whined. Somehow, their mewling was insignificant, meagre compared to the warrior before him. For the seldom times he tasted her, or savored her touch on grueling mission, he remembered her ministrations perfectly. The ministrations that were, in fact, threatening to vanish his self-control.

“Diana, we can’t,” he said, voice husky.

“It’ll distract you, Bruce,” she purred. “You can finally move on. We can be together. You and me, and…” she chuckled as he squeezed his cock, evoking a grunt from her victim. “… a few other friends.”

A drained sigh fell from his lips, seared by the passion that seared through his body. Temptation, longing, loneliness – a thirst unsated since _her._ Diana could summon the stamina and fierceness his previous trinkets could not – the bandages that sought to quell his quivering heart. At least with Wonderwoman he was unrestrained, limitless.

“Say the word, Bruce,” she whispered, her lips trailing his corded neck. “And I’m yours.”

 _Mine. A distraction. Mine._ His thoughts screamed as her wrestled the Amazon into his arms and ravaged her neck with violent, smothering kisses. She moaned in victory, fondled him tighter.

“ _Mine.”_


	30. Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This needs edited, but I wanted to post it anyways. Will revise soon!

The damp air of the batcave settled over her shoulders like an aged cloak. Creatures fluttered between dangling rocks, the leather flap of their wings echoing between the jagged rafters.

It was oddly soothing, the pattern of such willowy creatures. To and fro they puttered, seemingly oblivious to the set of green eyes that followed them.

Metallic clicks resonated through the cave. Claire followed the noise, clutched her tattered and bloodied shirt from the previous night to her chest. Next to roaming nude, it was her best option. Covered in tattered holes, her attire did little to shroud her from the cold.

She roamed deeper until she entered a room teeming with exercise equipment. Bars and racks loomed along steel walls; tires and weights laid strewn across the floor. Machines lingered, green lights flashing on the control panels.

 _I’ve used a stairclimber before, right?_ She mused dubiously, eyeing a potentially hazardous contraption.

Her gaze lifted, and settled on the source of the metallic sound. A rack stood, adorned with deep, metal grooves. A bar rested within the notches. Each time the bar moved up, it clicked within the groove, a _chink!_ emanated in response. A muscular figure was navigated contraption, knuckles gripping the bar.

With each movement, his biceps rippled. His torso buckled, the delicious lines of his abdomen quivering at the impact. The handsome face attached to the body was lined with sweat, dark eyebrows drawn in concentration. Oblivious to Claire, the figure fell from the rack and grabbed onto a bar at the bar corner of the room. He grasped it, flung himself over it. Turn after turn, his body blurred – unstoppable, formidable. When he finally paused, it was to hoist himself over the bar, his forearms supporting his body as he gazed into the room, sharp eyes lingering on the journalist who stood in the doorway.

He quirked his lips, raised an eyebrow.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Oh, well,” Claire faked a yawn, traced her hand through the air. “You know how sweat and exertion does it for me.” She eyes scanned the dull fixtures of the room. “You’re not much for decoration.”

“Distractions,” he said and flung himself onto the floor.

“What’s wrong with distractions?” Claire eyed his drenched chest, a breath hitched in her throat. As he neared, Claire grasped the threshold behind her. She fought to maintain a neutral gaze, to see through the sexy, formidable man before her.

The man who caressed her skin – who made her _feel._

The man who broke her heart.

Bruce loomed before her, his mammoth of a body drowning out her petite one. His sweaty hands encircled her hips, pulled her closer.

“Depends on the distraction,” he mused. “I’m not used to interruptions this early.”

Claire grunted, forcing down her bravado with a huff.

“Then you don’t make a habit of whisking girls into your cave,” she said. “Which I was right about, by the way.”

Bruce smiled – a genuine, bright – exultation. He shifted Claire back, his eyes scanning her freckled face.

“You’re taking this well.”

“How else am I supposed to take it, Wayne?” She grumbled. “We broke up, you withheld this from me – understandably – and now you lure me back. With all you do, the people you save… How am I not supposed to… to…” She knew the word she wanted, the expression that danced on her tongue.

She shook her head, slapped away his embrace.

“But it doesn’t change anything, Bruce. We still have problems – you don’t consult me on things, you’ve fucked every model and celebrity, and I –“

Bruce chuckled, crossed his arms over his bulging chest.

“All you see are the problems with me, Claire,” he said. “I wasn’t the one who left things unresolved between us. I wasn’t the one who walked out.”

“Yes, but you were the one who made critical decisions without my consent!” She whailed, hands flying to her hips. “You threw my career to the wind! And you didn’t ask for my opinion!”

Bruce swiped a hand across his face, groaned.

“If I hadn’t made the announcement, the press would’ve jumped to their own conclusions. Is that what you wanted, Claire? To be misconstrued as a whore? Your career would be nonexistent, and you’d be no more than just another woman I fucked.” A small smile tickled his lips.

  _Little did they know…_

Crimson flooded her cheeks and she stuttered. Memories of the night flashed through her mind. His lips, his touch – was he truly saving her?

Claire visibly shook herself, straightened her shoulders. “The fact stills stands, you treated me as a submissive. This isn’t _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , I never signed a contract. When we were together, I consented to a relationship – consent. It wasn’t within your authority – “

“I wouldn’t have to exercise authority if you’d think before you act,” he snapped. “Last night was preventable. If you listened to me, this would be a non-issue. The press would’ve forgotten after a few smiles and appearances.”

“How is hell was Waller preventable? If she didn’t strike last night, she would’ve striked the next time I was alone.”

“No,” he said, a darkness edging his tone. “She wouldn’t cross me. Whatever she led you to believe, she lied. She knew we weren’t an item. She knew you were vulnerable.”

Claire’s head suddenly seemed smaller on her shoulders, insignificant.

“I wasn’t vulnerable,” she whispered. “I just needed an escape.”

“Again, without thinking,” he said.

Her eyes shot up to his, green orbs racked with curiosity.

“You knew she’d come for me?”

He nodded, a stoic inclination on his head.

“But you didn’t tell me?”

“You weren’t involved in this world yet,” he said, sighed. “I planned on telling you everything with time.”

“Yet another decision made without me,” she grumbled, tossed her hands to the air.

Bruce smiled solemnly. “You didn’t consult me when you left.”

“Well – I – that was different.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “We should’ve discussed everything before you went to the press.”

“You didn’t afford me a chance to explain,” he countered. “Claire, when your mind fastens on a perceived moral wrong, that is all you can fathom. Nothing else matters.”

“That’s a lie,” she snapped. “You mattered to me.”

“Mattered?” He mused, stepped closer. He lifted a hand to caress her cheek. Instinctively, she nuzzled into her calloused touch, reveling in the intimacy.

“OK – matters. You still matter to me,” she grouched, closing her eyes.

“So, we move forward,” he said. “No more secrets.”

Claire nodded into his touch, her body thrumming contently.

“Forward,” she agreed.

His fingers hovered over her shredded attire. He clicked his tongue.

“You need clothes.”

“I thought you preferred me without clothes?” Claire cracked open an eye and laughed.

Bruce grinned, his blue eyes tinted with lust. The hand at her cheek moved to swath the nape of her neck, tilted her face to view his.

In that moment, Claire knew each thought that dared course through his mind. The hunger, the longing, his touch.

They had lost time to account for.

And Claire had a feeling he would deliver.

****

For the times Claire stayed at Wayne Manor, she’d never been invited to Bruce’s room. The gesture, after seeing the fortress beneath his house, seemed grander now. His bedroom was a mammoth of a room. His four-post bed, located at the far end of the room, bpasted a chic black duvet. There were no decorative pillows, or flair. Merely sheets and a duvet, and the essential pillows. His end tables were of a dark lacor. Claire ran her hand across the smooth surface, smiling. Smooth, but resilent, elegant – as though Bruce were personified in an end table himself.

Bruce abandoned Claire at the edge of the bed in favor of the closet. He rummaged through it before returning to her, his chest still delightfully bare as he dangled several tokens of clothing in his hands.

Claire reached for them silently, and smirked up at her dark beau.

“Boxers? Oversized t-shirt? If that doesn’t say I-Was-Just-Fucked, I don’t know what does.”

Bruce winked a shiny, blue eye. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

As Claire’s eyes rummaged across Bruce’s brazen form, she could see no greater truth in his words.

A man and a bat – Bruce Wayne.

Nonchalantly admiring the silk boxers in her hands, Claire’s eyes shimmed up to his.

“You do realize we will be discussing your deep-root insecurities that lead you to masquerade as a bat, right?”

“As long as it isn’t a front-page exclusive.”

She shot him a glare. “And you would know from experience? Lois Lane, right?” Claire reared back her head. “Does she know?!”

Bruce shifted, attempted to disguise his discomfort. “Another time.” His eyes darted to the side before he turned, showcasing the rippled expanse of his back.

“Don’t turn your back on me!” Claire squealed. “Where are you going?!”

“To shower,” he said, throwing a leer over his shoulder. “Get changed. Alfred is expecting us for lunch.”

And with that, Claire was alone. Her eyes trailed after him, watching as he cracked the bathroom door. If the sheer size of his bedroom was any indication, his bathroom was likely larger.

She listened to the water as it fell in rivets on the tile, and shimmied out of her clothes. She disposed of them in the wooden hamper on the inside of Bruce’s walk-in closet. She ran her hand over the vast selection of silk ties and suits, her fingers skimming over the inside of an Armani suit. Envisioning her knight in black-tie was exhilarating, but Kevlar was more his style.

Bruce, she started to see, was truly Batman. The billionaire playboy life was a scam. An alaborate one that, unfortunately, involved numerous patronesses to frequent his presence. With a weary glance at the bed, Claire abruptly changed and vacated the bedroom. She didn’t need more reminders of his past, not today.

With countless twists and turns, and a staircase or two, Claire managed to scramble onto a patio. Overlooking the ocean, Claire sighed. The sun strode high in the sky, rays seeping into her bruised and battered skin.

 _I’m dating Batman,_ She thought. _I’m dating THE Batman._

That could never get old, right?

“Miss West,” a British accent cooed at her ear. She turned, greeting Alfred with a brilliant smile. Uncharacteristically she fled to his arms and swathed him in a hug.

The butler merely smiled, patted her back.

“I’ve missed you as well, Miss West,” he said, detaching himself. “I fear Mr. Wayne’s prior conquests are quite dull in comparison.” His eyes appraised Claire, searching for distress. “I do hope your stay is extended this time, yes? Now that you’ve learned our secret?”

 “You never suspect the butler.” Claire shot him a sly smile. “The things you’ve seen…”

“What happens in the manor, stays in the manor, Miss West,” he replied cryptically.

With a small smile, the butler bumbled to the patio table. Plates and crystal glasses sat on the table, begging to be filled. After a few touches, Alfred fled, promising to bring food with his return. Claire helped herself to the table, and dropped into a plush chair.

“Father, I said –“ A voice called around the corner, shoes clanking against the patio. It stopped short of the table, cleared its throat.

Claire’s head whipped around to discover a young boy. No more than 12-years-old, his hair was dark, not unlike Bruce's. His chin was familiar – chiseled, stubborn. His cheekbones were defined, sharper and regal. His eyes were a lush green, inquisitive as they examined her.

He huffed, rolled his eyes. “He couldn’t even escort you to the front door?”

“Don’t be such a dick,” a familiar voice chided. A taller form ambled in behind the boy’s, cobalt eyes gleaming with friendliness. He fell into the chair beside Claire, offered her a salacious grin. “Not too shabby for a fuckass, eh?”

“Why do you insist on making nice with his whores?” The boy seethed. “The more attention you offer, the more attached they become.”

Grossly underdressed and insulted, Claire clutched Bruce’s shirt closer. She scrunched her nose.

“I’m not a stray _dog,”_ she spat. Her eyes raked across the familiar face. “Dick, right?”

“Naturally,” he replied, reaching for a roll in the center of the table. “That’s Damian – another prodogical son. Not as prodogical as me, of course.”

“Charming,” Claire remarked, drew her gaze to Damian. “What’s your maladjustment?”

Damian snorted, nearly echoing Bruce’s demeanor. As he shuffled around the table and sat, as far from Claire as he could manage, Claire was certain the child was Bruce’s. Dick, however, was different. His eyes were darker, his facial structure angular, different.

Claire’s eyes narrowed.

Dick chuckled, pointed to Damian. “Don’t mind him. He hasn’t been queued in. I was at Arkham last night. Nice handywork, by the way. You nearly shot Bruce.”

“SHE KNOWS?” Damian gawked, pausing in his scalding glare aimed in Claire’s vicinity.

Claire drew her hands over her eyes and peered through the holes between her fingers. If Bruce revealing himself as Batman didn’t scare away Claire, his children certainly did.

On cue, Bruce strode onto the patio. A bemused Alfred in tow, his eyes swept across the scene. When they landed on Claire, he sighed. He adjusted the white polo at his neck and shot a skeptical gaze in Damian’s direction.

Before sitting, he strut to Claire and lifted her to stand. His lips fluttered along her jaw, blew gently in her ear: “One lunch, and I’m yours.” He drew back slightly to implore her eyes. “I promised, no more secrets.”

She heaved her shoulders and smiled, adoration forging its way through her befuddled state. She leaned forward on her toes to press her forehead to his.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Bruce.”


	31. Spooky Premonitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! I have left a treat for you! Also, there may be a chapter directly after!
> 
> I would apologize for "ghosting" you, but I think this chapter will make up for it. (;

_A father._

It was a thought that haunted Claire’s thoughts as she stood behind him. He stood on his balcony, head toward to the roaring waters that rumbled against the rocks. The purples and pinks of dusk fanned around him like a silhouette painting.

Her eyes traced his broad back, the outline of his chin, his sultry lips.

His cheek twitched, eyes still fastened to the water.

“You haven’t escaped yet.”

“You’d only catch me,” she mused, flashed a toothy grin.  

He chuckled and turned, rested his back against the balcony’s wooden railing. His icy eyes devoured hers, inquisitive.

“Most women don’t take kindly to illegitimate sons.”

 “Honestly, I’m impressed that only _one_ son was illegitimate,” she said. “Dick was the difficult one to swallow – his story,” her eyes misted slightly, a tortured scene of a small orphan taunting her thoughts. “I can’t imagine…”

“He survived.”

“Because of you,” she whispered. “Damian, too.”

She was surprised at how smoothly lunch proceeded. Amid Damian scathing glares, Claire and Dick enjoyed themselves. As the pair joked, Bruce proudly overlooked, his hand occasionally brushing hers. By the conclusion of the meal, his hand lightly soothed her thigh, encouraging.

“I’m no hero, Claire,” he snorted. “I don’t do damsels in distress. I don’t fly. And I don’t change people.”

“You do what’s right, you led someone to save himself,” she insisted. “That is the definition of a hero. No matter how you evade the light, it lies inside you.” She creased her brow, shook her head. “I’m turning into a sap.”

Bruce detached himself from the rail and took a deliberate step forward, eyes fastened on the woman before him. His hand caressed her neck, fluttered to her cheek. He slowly leaned forward, the faintest smile lilting his lips.

“I’m beginning to think those stories you write are more than fiction,” he whispered against her forehead, lips trailing down the bridge of her nose.  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, moaning into the lips that found hers. Slowly, deliciously, the two danced. His hands swaddled her waist, urging her closer, closer.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, her fingers flying to unclasp the three buttons below his neck. She groaned into their kiss, her teeth taunting his lips. She chuckled, smoothed a hand down the buttons of his polo, caressed the sinew of his chest.

Bruce pulled away to arm’s length, his lips pulled into a curious smile.

“Something amusing?”

“In the movies, the guy never wears a polo,” Claire mused. “It’s always a button down. It’s sexier, provocative?” Her eyebrows crooked before she slid in closer, nuzzling her lips into the crisp angle of his jaw.

A grisly laugh rumbled in his throat and the hand at Claire’s waist roved down her hips with delicious intention, his blue eyes mischievous with hidden intention. One hand slithered along her thigh to grapple her bum, fingers taunting the tender flesh.

His lips sought the underside of her neck, and slid his hand beneath her shirt, fingers prying beneath the waist band of her shorts.

The slightest moan left her lips. She fought to sew the distance between them, grinding her body against his.

A grunt of surprise sounded in his chest, and he stepped backwards, sweeping Claire with him. He poised her against the bed post, began to scrumptiously unbutton her shirt – the shirt he loaned her.

Claire giggled ironically, peered at him through hooded eyes.

“I see what you did there,” she said breathlessly. “Turning the tables.”

He grinned and nibbled the smooth crevasse beneath her ear.

“You shouldn’t believe what you see in the movies.”

He kissed down her throat, to her newly exposed torso. His eyes peered between the valleys of her chest, covered in a bra from the previous night’s antics. His fingers sought to remedy the contraption, and trickled to the clasp.

Claire lazed against the post, grinding her teeth against the ripples in the wood that seared into her back. Her hands hitched behind his neck, lured him closer.

_Bliss, Bliss, Bliss…_

Now encased in ebony, the room surged with renewed light. Her eyes sobered to the light and her shoulders fell.

Bruce’s ministrations stuttered to a halt. He rested his head on the bedpost above Claire, eyes closed.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Claire shook the loose fabric at her shoulders and eased it shut once more, fingers trembling as they made to undo the havoc Bruce hath wrought. She brushed a hand across his cheek.

“Leave it to Gotham to screw with a man’s sex life, huh?”

He turned his lips into her hand, groaned.

“Don’t tease me, Claire,” he begged. “I’m wounded.”

“And so is someone out there.” She nodded to the beaming beacon blazing outside the window. “I’ll be here when you get back, I… I promise.”

His eyes snapped open, disbelieving.

“You’re staying? You?”

“I can’t very well leave now, I have a story to write.”

She shimmed around the pole and away from Bruce, sucking in a shaky breath.

“Go save Gotham,” she said. “And bring back something tasty.”

“Tasty, she wants something tasty,” he muttered in disbelief before shuffling to the suite’s door. “You’re aware I have a butler?”

“I doubt Alfred can provide what I’m craving,” she said, green eyes glistening in his direction. “Unless…”

Bruce’s chuckled unfurled around Claire, prompting a smile to lift her lips.

“For his sake, he better not,” he said, and bid her a solemn glance before he departed.

***

She saw the appeal in the Batcave; the solemnity of darkness and silence. It was eternal, endless and sound. She immersed herself in the batmobile, sinking into the plush driver’s seat and watching the lights blink around the control panel.

For the better part of an hour she willed the buttons to work, to move, to connect her to a news outlet, Facebook, email – something to inform her of the world that passed by.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

There was something here that cleansed her doubts. A sense of belonging – fate. It was like the puzzle pieces had finally linked together to show the full illustration, and Bruce was in it.

Which was why sitting alone in his room was too morbid, lonely. Here, she could think and be inspired. As her pen wrote, her mind stilled, and the world began to fall into place.

Bruce Wayne. Batman. Bruce had sons. Batman had accomplices.

Bruce Wayne was Batman.

And she was in love with him.

Which was why she waited, clinging to the scent of him in his vessel. She longed to see him, feel him and be one at last. She wanted to end the battle that had so long raged between them; she wanted a new start.

A new start together.

The waterfall in the cave rumbled, and the waters parted. A motorcycle roared through, sending exhaust through the chamber. The bike hissed to a halt, and Batman eased himself off the contraption. His hand stalled on the ignition with a frown.

Claire watched him curiously, pencil ledged between her teeth.

He shed his cowl as he walked. With one button and a metallic grind, the headpiece shrunk behind his neck, revealing the stoic knight underneath. He ventured to the computer, squinted at the login screen and paused before shutting the system down.

Seeing her moment, Claire disentangled herself from the armory of the Batmobile and hefted herself over the side.

He turned on his heel immediately, cape swirling about him. When his eyes fell on Claire’s, they softened.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said.

In the cool of the cave, Claire stood in one of his capes. Long and sleek, the fabrics reached long past her calves, fanning the floor. The cloak clasped at her breast, and sheathed her body, save for her legs.

Taking notice of her attire, Bruce blinked.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Claire teased. She took a step closer to him. “There’s too much to think about.”

“Thinking can be dangerous,” he advised, watching her through hooded eyes.

She stepped close enough to grapple his chest, and press a kiss to his chin. Her fingers danced along the Kevlar, before closing in on either side of his neck, pulling him within her reach.

“Which is why I decided to stop thinking, and do,” she said, eyes meeting his. “I want you, and I don’t think I know entirely what that entails, but I want you. I’m trusting you with … me. And the future, and our plans and… I want you to want me, too.”

She hung her head and laughed.

“I sound like a kindergartener with a love note.”

Bruce lifted a hand to raise her chin, and beseeched her with hunger eyes.

“No, you sound like a confident powerful woman,” he said. “It’s sexy. You’re sexy.”

His lips fluttered against hers before Claire tightened her arms and pulled herself closer. Her mouth open to the his tongue, and the two began a battle for dominance. Their once tender kissing, evolving into chaos, passion.

He backed her against the batmobile and clutched her hips through his cape. His fingers drew across her thigh and beneath the cape, delving into her core.

Claire clutched his neck and bit Bruce’s lip. His fingers swirled her clit tortuously, delectably. His hips ground against hers as he set a pattern, luring her to the cusp of bliss. He chuckled against her throat and brought a hand to undo the clasp at her breasts, the cape billowing onto the shiny hood of the car.

He broke their kiss, and whispered with heady intent: “Back on the hood. Now.”

Eyes muddled with lust, her eyes drew to his.

“On the batmobile?” She fawned in disbelief. “I’m not losing my virginity on the hood of your car.”

 “Get on the damn hood,” he growled.

If she weren’t drunk with lust, she may have argued, but the commandeering huskiness of his voice drove her to comply. And as she ghosted over the hood, his cape braced her against the rigid surface.

Bruce kissed down her legs to her ankle, swirling his tongue slowly against her flesh. With a sultry flourish, he kissed his way up her thigh and braced her legs over his shoulders.

His breath tickled as he neared her intimate sphere. Braced against his shoulders, Claire writhed at the light touch of his tongue. Her pleasured moans rioted off the caverns. The slightest bristle of his beard bristled against her lips, and Claire’s hands tugged at his hair, urging him closer, closer.

And so his tongue swirled, encircling her clit with fervor. Her hips lurched against his lips, begging for friction.

“Let it go, Claire.”

“I – God – “ She whined. “Bruce – “

With a few more swirls of his tongue, Bruce’s teeth nicked her bud, prompting Claire’s delicious reprieve. She clutched his head, and mewled his name in an impassioned plea. His ministrations continued until he was satisfied, and he rose to shroud her body, a lavacious grin coated his lips.

When his lips seized hers, they were salty.

 _He tastes like me,_ she realized and moaned into his lips. From embarrassment or arousal – she was certain it was both.

Her fingers drifted against the rigid Kevlar of his suit and she pulled away, cheeks bright as a cherry.

Bruce’s shimmering gaze met hers, all but peering into her soul before he lifted himself and walked away, disappearing into a chamber.

 Moments later he returned gloriously nude. Claire, poised on the hood atop her elbows, gasped.

She’d seen him shirtless before, laid beside him as he slept, but never had she witnessed him as gloriously free. He stalked forward with predatory purpose, the muscular expanse of his thighs propelling him further, closer. Her eyes plastered to the deep indents on his abdomen, the sculpted canvas of his chest. She imagined her fingers prying along each rigid crevasse, her tongue trailing every dent.

A primitive sound whirled in the back of her throat and inclined her head in submission, lifted her eyes to the predator that loomed over her.

He bent his head to her breast and took in one eager bud, ravishing it with his tongue. His other suctioned to her hip, ground her closer.

“This body is mine,” he growled against her breast. “Mine.”

“Yours,” she moaned in agreement. “Yours, yours, yours.”

He shifted near her entrance and lifted his head to ensnare Claire’s attention.

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

“I—” Claire crinkled her forehead. She collected her thoughts, took a steadying breath. “Yes. Yes, Bruce, please.”

Bruce entered slowly, taking his time to breech the maidenhood that was untouched for years. He grunted, squeezed his eyes as he shuddered in ecsasty.

“You’re so tight, Claire,” he moaned. His lips drew to a breast to suckle it once before embracing her lips once more.

Claire’s fingers dug into Bruce’s back, nails intruding his skin.

Claire writhed beneath him, her hips undulating against his. He moved once, twice, and set a rythmn that rattled Claire to her core.

His was large and consuming, and she thought he was destined to shred her to pieces. She slid a hand to cradle Bruce’s chest, her fingers catching in rivulets of muscles. Each thrust grew stronger, bolder, until Claire was trembling beneath him.

One of his hands reached down to tickle that savory spot between her legs. He circled it once, twice and lowered his mouth to nibble on the tender spot beneath her neck.

“Now,” he growled against her neck, his tongue trailing to her chin.

Claire threw back her head, craving that blissful slip. All she wanted—all she dared imagine was this moment. Her body thrashed, and Bruce purred at her neck. With an animalistic fervor, her bit into her neck.

“Claire, now!”

And Claire saw light amid the ominous darkness.

Her orgasm bubbled through her like bubbles in a glass of champagne. Slow at first, then spilling over all at once. As she constricted around Bruce, she screamed, a sound of bliss that echoed off the rafters.

Bruce lost himself in Claire’s bliss, his body filling hers. She felt his hips buckle, and his essence fill her. She clung to his massive shoulder, panted.

Bruce chuckled into her neck, kissed her skin softly.

“I love you,” he said, blue eyes shameless. He shook his head, as though saying it for the first time.

Claire’s fingers trembled around his neck, and she collapsed against the hood of his car.

“I…” She whispered, eyes drifting shut. “I’ve always loved you.”

***

Claire was tucked into the command chair in the Batcave, a careful move made by Bruce long after she’d fallen asleep. She was wrapped in one of his button-up shirts, the fabrics gaping at her breasts. Her feet and legs were bare, save the blanket Bruce had draped over her.

Her eyes drew to a metallic buzz emanating throughout the cave. Bruce squatted by his motorcycle. His hands wielded a wrench and screwed a bolt into place. He was shirtless, allowing the muscle that drifted across his skin to ripple and stretch.  Her mind summon succulent memories that caused her toes to curl and her stomach to constrict.

“Why look at what you can touch,” Bruce said. His eyes flickered to hers, trademark smirk lilting his lips. Seeing it now, and how it compared to Batman’s, she wondered how she never made the connection.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claire said, indignant.

He chuckled. “How do you feel?”

“The same way I feel any other day, thank you, though I am a little famished,” she mused.

“I wouldn’t want you to starve,” he said. “I’ll call Alfred. Any requests?”

Claire shook her head.

Bruce pulled a phone from the pockets of his jeans, tip-tapped a message, and reached for an object in the tool box beside him.

Bruce twirled the trinket in his fingers before latching it onto the motorcycle. Claire turned away and drew her shirt closer. She rubbed her palms feverishly down her arms. She numbly scanned her surroundings, jumping at an errant beep of Bruce’s computer.

The computer followed with a metallic coo, colors flashing vapidly across the screen. A message rang out amid the colors:

**JUSTICE LEAGUE REQUEST– 2230**

“Bruce,” she said, throat constricting. “Bruce, the computer’s flashing.”

Bruce looked over and snorted.

“It’s a League summons,” he said. “Just don’t touch anything.”

Claire scrunched her nose, raised her eyebrows.

“Do I look like a child? Afraid I’ll break your toys?”

Bruce cast her a skeptical glare and quirked his head to the side.

“You have a record.”

“Unbelievable!” She shrilled. “Bad things find me, it’s not like I actively seek them out! You sought me out, didn’t you?”

“Only is deter you from more trouble.”

He grinned, and turned back to his tinkering.

“Funny, that’s not the message I got last night.” She swiveled her chair in a circle and winked.

The alarms of the computer began anew, louder.

“This is definitely a job for Batman,” she said. “Bruce—”

“Transport initiated, Batman,” a metallic voice crooned.

Claire leapt up from the chair and lifted her arms innocently.

“I swear, I didn’t touch anything.”

Bruce whirled and dropped the trinket in his hand before stoically regarding the screen.

Fluorescent light seized Claire’s body, illuminating her scantily concealed curves. She looked down, up, and to the side with wild, frenzied eyes.

Her arms lifted to clash into an invisible barrier.

“BRUCE!” She shrieked, pounding against the barrier. “BRUCE, FIX THIS!”

“Prepare for transport.”

“Claire—"

 She surged through the air, a tickle lighting her stomach. As quickly as her feet lifted from the ground, they landed once more on crisp, grey tiles.

A chuckle filled the room, and Claire peered through her lashes before raising a hand to throat.

A tremor seized her throat as she shriveled beneath the scrutiny of the Justice League.


	32. Gone

“Claire?” A familiar voice echoed. She drew her gaze to the patron in red that sat at the corner of the league table, mask obscuring his face. She raised her arms to cover her bulging bosom, clearly defined under the intense scrutiny of light. 

“I think it’s safe to say we found you sister, Flash.”

Claire shifted to the broad hero in blue and red that sat at the head of the table. A swirl of black hair trickled down his forehead. His arms were crossed around his chest, and his eyes held a familiar glow, an understanding.

Red dashed across Claire’s vision, and soon Wally came to stand beside her. He hurriedly took her elbow and steered her into his arms, eyes darting protectively beneath his mask.

Green Arrow chuckled from the end of the table, earning an impromptu glare from the Green Lantern at his left.

Mumbles broke out amongst the members, all eyes switching amongst themselves and Claire, who stood with a hand shrouding her eyes. Her cheeks bloomed with crimson.

“Order, order,” Superman commanded, kind eyes landing on Claire. He offered her an apologetic smile. “I’d say it’s past time we improved our interface.”

“Batman’s responsibility,” Wonder Woman noted, a sneer contorting her Amazonian lips.

“Where have you been?” Wally shouted. “You never showed up in Central City, and then I heard about the Arkham escape – how – how did you end up with Bats?”

 _Bats?_ Claire rolled her eyes.

“I—was taken there,” she said, scrambling to assemble the truth. “Batman rescued me. Amanda Waller—”

“Waller?” Green Lantern crinkled his eyebrows, rising from the table. “What does Waller want with you?”

Claire looked to Wally, and then the members of the Justice League. Compared to Wally’s vague confusion, each member wore a stoic expression.

The same stoic expression the tapes, the Justice Lords.

_The Justice Lords…._

The air shifted. A black form resurrected in the space beside Claire. Arrow perched his chin smugly on his arm, inkling his head to the newest patron in the room.

Claire knew his scent, his power – she didn’t need to turn and face him.

“Bats, I owe you one!  Wally exclaimed, a grin lighting his face. He leaned in close to Batman, shielded his face cryptically. “Next time, though, could you find her better clothes.” 

Claire nearly retched and extracted herself from Wally’s care. When she did, a black cloak swallowed her shoulders. She tied it around her body with numb fingers.

She flinched at cloak, remembering its silky embrace from the night before.

_You’ve gotten yourself into it now, West._

Batman edged toward her, shifted the cloak subtly around her shoulders.

“Batman,” Superman greeted. “Glad you could join us… with company, of course.”

“Company that Amanda Waller has invested an interest in,” Lantern said. “Which raises the question of why? And if she created in the Arkham break to distract us.”

“It’s rather obvious why, wouldn’t you say?” Wonderwoman interjected, ever poised.

“Diana,” J’onn croaked across from Superman. His eyes were black and vast, but soothing. When they landed on Claire she caught a sense of acceptance, warmth.

“Waller had no idea about Arkham,” Batman finally spoke. “Someone broke in to cause a distraction. She told Claire to run. I found her.”

“It still doesn’t explain why,” Wally said, plainly confused. “Claire has nothing to do with us.”

“She’s your sister,” Diana seethed. “And she has lain with Batman. She’s leverage.”

Claire sighed, pressed a hand to her exposed collarbone.

_Is this really happening right now? Am I being filmed?_

Wally turned to Claire, mouth agape.

“YOU SLEPT WITH HIM?” He gawked. “I thought you were dating Bruce Wayne?! Before he was an asshole, before he broke your heart.” He tone lent a certain undertone of betrayal, hurt. As though Claire’s heartbreak were his own.

“Wally,” Claire began carefully, as though coercing a toddler. “Batman is – we –”

 “Christ,” Lantern sighed, shaking his head.

J’onn offered Claire a soothed gaze before breaking the news to her brother, tone patient: “Flash, you are aware of Batman’s indentity?”

“Yeah, Bruce, or something, right? So?” Wally raised a hand flippantly.

The room collectively gazed in the Flash’s direction.

“Oh come on!” Wally whined. “Like there isn’t more than one Bruce? Bats isn’t a billionaire.”

“You ignorant child!” Wonder Woman launched from her spot at the table. “Bruce Wayne is the Batman!”

“You would know,” Arrow mused. The Amazonian ensnared him with a scathing glare, teeth barred.

Claire dragged her gaze to Bruce, lips squished together.

_I have to compete with a goddess? Oh, hell no._

Unable to stand the banter, Claire strode to the League table and cleared her throat.  Her crisp gaze raked along each member like nails across a chalk board.

“Let me begin by saying how honored I am to meet my brother’s friends,” she said. “He’s clueless and goofy, but you accept him. And that, no matter what your current feelings for me, is significant.”

“Waller detained me at the gate for the airport, and dragged me to Arkham,” she continued. “She wants me to work for Luthor and support his upcoming bid for president.” Her eyes slid to Bruce. “Luthor is her counter attack to the Justice Lords.”

“Justice Lords?” Wally crowed, glaring in Bruce’s direction. “What is she talking about?”

“Wally—” Superman began, a pained look seizing his broad features.

“In another reality, you were killed,” Batman said, eyes never leaving Claire’s. His tone held the slightest hint of shame; shame in Claire knowing what he himself could not stomach. “In your passing, the League took up a dictatorship of Earth. Waller’s been tasked to prevent it, prevent _us_.”

Tears stung in Claire’s eyes as Wally shifted, seemingly unsteady on his feet.

“I—I die? Who—”

“Luthor,” Superman said, eyes solemn.

“And you never told me?” Wally grit his teeth. “He’s gotten my sister involved, and you never even told me?”

“We thought it’d be wise in preventing the incident all together,” J’onn said. “It was for your own good.”

“Yeah? And what about my family? Did you ever think of that?”

Flash snorted and stormed forward to snatch Claire’s wrist.

“Wally, hear us out,” Lantern advised, knowing he was the League’s best chance at getting Wally to concede. “You’re our family, too. We’d do whatever it takes to protect you, and your sister.” His glowing orbs landed reassuringly on Claire.

“Sure, protect the idiot, right? ‘cause I can’t manage it myself? You can all go to hell!” Wally snapped and dragged his sister backward. “From now on, I don’t need your help!”

“Wally,” Claire snapped with authority. “You’re acting foolish—”

“No, foolish is believing that these guys were my friends. Foolish is your running back to the asshole that hurt you in the first place.” He yelled to the ceiling for transport, and lugged Claire to his side. His eyes landed on Batman, who was stalking toward them. “Stay away from my sister.”

Before anyone could protest, yellow light swathed them. Bruce inched forward to take Claire’s hand, but she was gone.

***

She was gone.

It was often that he had to remind himself, particularly after he was seized by  lust for another woman.

He leaned against the doorway of suite, eyes landing the bundle of limbs sleeping in his bed. Her long, black hair stirred against his pillows like a paint brush.

Bruce admired her silently, swelled with pride at his Amazonian conquest.

She was once a door he preferred to keep closed, but the past months had endeared her to him. She was the exhilaration where justice lacked; the savory ache after a cumbersome day of loneliness. .

She was a distraction.

Footsteps shuffled down the hall. A groggy Damian ghosted past Bruce, keen eyes scrutinizing him in the dark. Bruce bid him a crisp nod. Damian paused, peeked into his father’s room and snorted. Bruce chuckled as his son stalked away, shoulders taut.

Bruce ran a hand over his face and abandoned the doorway, allowing the door to creak closed behind him. He walked to Parker’s door, paused to listen in. Amid still air, were the contented giggles of a young child.

Shrill and soft, the toddler’s chortles spiraled through the room.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Bruce entered the room with the practiced stealth of a guardian. He eased door closed behind him, eagerly paving his way to the crib in the center of the room.

Only, Parker wasn’t in the crib.

Bruce watched the genteel demeanor of the hooded stranger who held his child. Parker squealed with joy, and pulled at the head wrappings of his visitor. A low hum circled through the room, soft as silk. Bruce felt it drift through his ears with a familiar ease.

Parker’s grubby hands suctioned along the covered face. Slowly, he drew his forehead to the stranger’s, closing his eyes.

The stranger sighed into his tiny embrace, moving the head to nuzzle under Parker’s chin.

Parker tilted his head and yawned, tiny eyes squinting through the dark. Unseeingly, he reached to grapple still air.

The stranger clicked its tongue and rocked slowly, luring Bruce’s beloved to rest. As Parker eased into oblivion, the stranger laid him in the crib and swathed him in blankets.

The hand reached for the worn dinosaur at the corner of the crib, rubbed gloved fingers over the fabric.

Bruce seized the distraction and crept closer. He snatched a book resting along a self. He lurched forward.

The stranger deflected his attack with ease, ducked and aimed an elbow low on Bruce’s torso.

Bruce groaned with surprise and rubbed a hand along his stomach. Not one to lag, he quickly dropped to a crouch and swept his leg across the floor, catching the back of his opponent’s knees.

His foe barely skirted the ground before arching back and catapulting off the floor. The stranger turned, and kicked out at Bruce. The knight fumbled, barely catching himself against the crib.

The battle was silent as Parker slept peacefully beside them. Occasionally, the tot would turn, or tuck his thumb between the crib’s bars. The stranger eyed him determinedly, dragged in shaky breaths between assaults.

In a moment of distraction, Bruce managed to wrap his arm around the stranger’s stomach. Bruce wrangled his prey in his arms, slammed the victim against the wall. Bruce wrestled the stranger by the shirt.

“Who sent you?”

The figure wheezed and groaned. In the corner of his eye, Bruce caught a glimpse of silver. A medallion fluttered at the stranger’s neck. Bruce clutched it with his free hand, scrutinizing the familiar engraving.

“Ra’s,” he snarled.

Bruce released the trinket and clenched his teeth. He loomed above the stranger, poised to strike.

“Why did he send you? And what does he want with my son?”

The stranger shook its head frantically, gestured toward the crib.

“Words,” he growled and shifted his grasp the stranger’s neck, squeezed. The stranger clutched at Bruce’s hands, groaning.

 “I’m waiting.”

The figure in his grasp grew limp. He looked to the neck of the offender, and gaped at the purplish stripes. He withdrew his hold and put two fingers to the stranger’s neck.

Damian trotted into the room, his eyes catching on Parker before trailing to the stranger. His green eyes bulged. Bruce tossed him the medallion, watched his eyes register with recognition.

His eyes flickered to Bruce. “Did you kill her?”

“Her?” Bruce replied.

 “I would assume,” Damian said, indignant voice laced with dread. “Unless grandfather has wed a man.”

“The demon has sent his wife to serve his unpleasantries?” Diana entered the room, arms corssed over her chest.

 “Diana, call J’onn,” Bruce ordered. “I won’t get anything out of her here.”

“He won’t help you, Bruce. Not without an explanation.” She brushed a reassuring hand over his hair.

“I know.”. He lifted the limp stranger into his arms.

He’d have to let the League enter Gotham, his home. There would be the seizure of authority, patrols. Ra’s would have to spar against the League.

Perhaps, Bruce thoughts, that was his intention from the beginning.

Damian nodded. “The wife of Ra’s vows against sedition. If you think a regular assassin is formidable, she is nothing.”

“And we’re on a timeline,” Bruce added. “He’ll be after her. If we lock her in the tower, he has obstacles.” He turned to Damian. “Call Dick. Take Parker and Alfred and head to Metropolis.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’d only leave Gotham exposed. For all we know, that’s exactly what Grandfather wants..”

“I don’t have time to argue with you,” Bruce snapped.

“Daddy?”

Parker stood against his crib, awake. Bruce met his child’s eyes. His tiny blue eyes were full of anger.  His fists clenched the crib railing as he assessed the limp stranger.

“You hurt her,” he said, eyebrows scrunched together. “You hurt her.”

“She was going to hurt you,” Bruce reasoned crisply.

“NO!” He slammed a fist against the crib.

Bruce squinted at his youngest son. Then, he turned to Damian.

“Damian, take care of him.”

He carried the stranger from the room with an eager Diana in toe, eagerly matching his strides.

“You do have a plan, don’t you?”

“Have you ever known me not to?”

“No.” She regarded him shrewdly. “But, I suspect this is greater than Ra’s. Hera, be blessed.” Her eyes drew to the ceiling, as though seeking the heavens.

Visions of revenge licked across Bruce’s mind.

Ra’s would never harm Gotham, or his family, not now.

Not God, nor Hera could stop him now.

Claire was gone.

His eyes flickered to the mysterious wife in his arms.

And soon she would be, too.


	33. Complications

As soon as her feet touched the ground, Claire struggled out of her brother’s hold. Her eyes flickered to a familiar couch and red peacoat hanging by the door.

_He brought me to my apartment?_

 She took a moment to breathe and soothe a hand along her collarbone, and turned to face her brother.

Wally had changed into jeans and a shirt by the time Claire recollected herself.

He smiled sheepishly and raised his hands in defense.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But this way it makes moving back to Central City easier. You can pack your things tonight and we can stay at my place until we can find something bigger. With the money from both our jobs ---”

Claire pressed a hand to her forehead.

“W-ha—Wally—you—I—” She sputtered. “If I leave Gotham, _I have no job._ We can’t get a new place if I have no job!”

“You’re a Pulitzer-winning writer!” He said. “Aunt Iris has connections at—”

“Wallace West, I am _not moving!”_ She threw her hands to the air. “Bruce and I happened. Batman and I happened – technically they’re the same person, but it doesn’t matter because it _happened!_ Life moves on, _we_ move on. I know you’re embarrassed—”

“Embarrassed?” Wally scoffed, eyes wide. “You were screwing one of my friends and I didn’t know about it! And then you show up, like naked, in front of everyone! I’m humiliated, Claire!”

“Ironic, that you would be the one with the perceived slight as I was the one unclothed!” She said. “Everyone in that room loved you, Wally, and you decided to ostracize them over something as minial as this! You are going to get your ass back up to that… club house-spaceship-thing, and apologize.”

Wally crossed his arms indignantly, drew his eyebrows down his nose.

“They don’t need me, I’m just the village idiot, remember?”

“You are _not_ the village idiot,” Claire said. She wrapped an arm around her brother’s shoulders, a habit from childhood. “They’re your friends, and they love you. Sure, you’re an airhead, and goofy and meddling, but that’s what endears you to them. Don’t let your ego interfere with the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“I’ll be dead soon anyways. Leaving now will just make it easier for them,” he said, staring at his feet.

Dread seized Claire’s heart so forcefully that she sighed, and drew in a shaky breath. Tears poked at her eyes as she drew his near and laid her head on his shoulder.

“It’s moot, because Luthor will never be elected as president. On my last breath, I swear it,” She said. Her eyes, while obscured with tears, shone with a ferocity unrivaled by even the malevolent of criminals. “I’ll kill him myself.”

“I’ll never let it get that far.”

Wally and Claire whirled around. Bruce stood facing the pair, dark hair tousled by the wind streaming in from the window left ajar. He wore a white shirt flourished with a silk vest.

Her eyes danced to the open window. _Who climbs up the window in a silk vest?_

Wally crossed his arm and glowered, eyebrows pulled over his eyes.

“He could at least knock,” he muttered.

Claire drove her elbow into her brother’s side. At his pained exhale, she cast him a cautionary look.

Bruce offered the pair a brief smile.

“Keeping the future from you was a unanimous decision,” he said. “We knew that if you discovered the truth, you’d try to change the future. You’d only kill yourself before Luthor did.”

“So, what? I just let the future happen?” Wally whined, eyebrows bunched at his nose.

“No.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if I can’t change it---”

“You can’t change the future, but we can,” he said. “Luthor will never become President because he’ll never get Claire, or the resources.” Bruce’s eyes flickered to Claire. “We know the steps he took to office. It won’t happen.”

“Damn right it won’t,” Claire said. Her eyes were misty, her vision blurred.

 “What happens when he finds another way?” Wally asked.

A dark shadow loomed over Bruce’s eyes. It was long, and daunting, and drew over his face like a cloud.

“Lex Luthor will never be President.” Bruce’s voice was like ice. It pierced Claire’s ears, and spread to her heart like poison. She felt the ill-bidden promise beneath her skin; the venom.

She felt the chill of goosebumps as they rose along her skin.

As though sensing her unease, Bruce directed his stare to where Claire stood. The ice in his voice nearly rivaled that in his eyes. It quickly thawed, and melted into appreciation, love.

“I wronged you, Wally,” he said without lifting his gaze on Claire. “I should’ve announced my intensions with Claire long before you found out. I failed you as a collague and a friend.”

A warmth radiated from Wally. His lips, so tightly wound, softened, and his arms fell to his side.

“You consider me a friend? Even though, you know, I didn’t really know who you were and… ?”

 _How are we even related?_ She threw her head into her hands.

Bruce hummed in acknowledgement, shifted uneasily.

He lifted one of his hands and offered it before Wally.

Wally surveyed Bruce’s hand and grabbed it, eyes fastened on Bruce’s face. He laughed once, and jerked Bruce forward. In a blur, Wally had ensnared the Knight into a hug

Bruce, eyes wide, awkwardly thumped Wally’s back. His eyes slid desperately to Claire, who peered out the windows between her fingers.

Wally released him suddenly and threw his hands to the air.

 “Awwww,” He gushed. “You love her, she loves you – and you’ll get married, and have kids. I’ll be the favorite uncle –Bruce, you don’t have siblings, right? Wait, can I call you Bruce?”

Claire’s skin turned a green-ish hue.

A brief look of horror graced Bruce’s feature before he cleared his throat and nodded.

“Bruce is fine.”

Wally threw his arms around Claire and Bruce’s shoulders.

“This is just so great, guys,” he said. “Our small, little family.”

“And getting smaller,” Claire muttered.

“I just need a moment to breathe this in,” Wally said.

“Family.” He drew in a deep breath and turned with face to the ceiling with a toothy grin

***

Claire stared out into the night, as though it were a friend. It spoke to her with a gentle whisper. She’d pulled a blanket off her bed and threw it across her shoulders, a warm comfort while she stared out her window. She saw a star lifted in the sky, dismissed from heaven to shine.

The air beside her shifted, and a pair of arms captured her waist, drew her near.

“How’d the meeting go?”

“Fine,” Bruce said, his voice a deep rumble in her ear. “Everyone loves Wally.”

Claire chuckled and leaned into his embrace. “He thinks you’re some sort of God now, you know. Ironic, seeing how he wanted me as far away from you as possible, before your little conversation.”

Bruce’s nose flitted against Claire’s neck, his breath drawing languidly over her nose, her cheeks.

“I meant what I said earlier, about protecting him,” he said. “Lex Luthor will never become president, and he’ll never have you.”

A shiver ran down Claire’s spine.

“Luthor doesn’t want me, he wants the presidency – I’m just a vessel. If he could get what he wanted through Lois, he’d choose her.”

“You’re talented, yes, but he knows who I am,” Bruce said. “You’re leverage.”

“You mean he knows who Batman is, uncowled?” Claire paused, pursed her lips in sardonic deliberation. “Uncowled – I like it.”

Bruce exhaled and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Lex is a powerful man with his own patented technology. For every superhero identity I discover, Lex follows. He’s intelligent, and when he sets his mind to something…” Bruce grunted. “He can be challenging.”

“I’ve seen the news, Bruce, I know exactly how _challenging_ Lex can be.” Claire looked to the stars again. Claire turned in his arms and nestled against his chest. She stared into his eyes. “I was thinking that it might not be such a terrible idea if I stay with Wally awhile, just until—”

“You can’t leave Gotham,” he said with conviction, eyes dark.

“And you think that I want to go back to Central City?’ Her brows pulled over her nose. “It’s a hellhole. Wally needs me—”

“He has the league’s protection,” he said with a tone of finality. “There’s nothing else you can do.”

Claire wretched out of Bruce’s arms. Her cheeks filled with red in the moonlight, and she jabbed a finger in his direction.

“We may be involved, but you will _not_ run my life. Wally is _my_ brother, and you don’t know what we’ve been through!”

Bruce stepped closer, shook his head. “I know—”

“Oh, of course,” she laughed in disbelief. “Because you spied on Wally, on me? Did you take pity on me – some, some pitiful klutz of a journalist? Why did you even bother, Bruce?”

Bruce cooed her name and pulled a struggling Claire into his arms. She beat against is chest with her fists.

“I don’t need your pity! Let me go! LET ME GO—”

Bruce cradled her face in his hands and kissed her softly, gently. Claire audibly gasped, appalled by the unusual tenderness of his touch. Her hands still beat at her chest, until her lowered his hands to grasp them, and maneuver them behind her back.

“Nothing will happen to him, Claire,” he whispered against her lips. “He’ll never be touched.”

“Never,” she confirmed, lips insistent against his.

Bruce groaned into her lips and drew her toward the bed.


	34. Options

J’onn peered into the glass chamber that held the unconscious wife of Ra’s AlGoul. He hands were chained to the wall behind her, her feet bound to the end of her narrow cot. Batman hadn’t bothered to remove the hood from the woman’s face, the veil. J’onn’s brow creased as he watched her, arms crossed loosely across his chest.

When Batman approached him, he sighed, drew his head to his colleague.

“I will do what you ask,” the martian said. “Only because I know you will interrogate her your own way if I do not.”

“She could be the key to everything, J’onn,” he said. His eyes gleamed beneath his cowl.

“I fear it is not so simple. She has an enchantment around her mind like a shield. I can remove it, but she must be cognizant.”

Batman nodded.

“Clark wants to here when she awakens,” he said. “He thinks I can’t restrain myself.”

“Can’t you?” J’onn asked.

Bruce and J’onn exchanged a modest silence.

“Call me when she wakes, and I’ll begin. But know this, Bruce,” he said, sagely voiced tinged with warning. “There will be no torture, no matter who she wed. She may be just as much a victim as your Clara.”

***

Claire braced an arm against the side of her cubicle as she browsed the draft of a colleague in her hand. Danielle hovered at her shoulder, one hand on her hip while the perused through a draft of her own.

Claire sighed and set the copy on her desk.

“Reed gets better every day,” she said as she rubbed a weary hand along her collarbone. “I’m just worried she’s not asking the right questions. Didn’t she go to—” Claire tried to summon the university to mind, swiveled a hand through the air, as though it might summon the idea to her mind.

“Northwestern,” Danielle supplied.

“Yeah, that, sure. Northwestern didn’t teach her reporting?”

“She’s nervous but putting her on crime is the best way for her to improve. She needs to learn how to tackle different subjects, like you did.” Danielle cast Claire a conspiratorial glance.

Claire rolled her eyes.

“Sure, sure. But I think we should have her pitch a creative idea, let her know we care. Side projects are a good distraction when your actual job sucks.” Claire looked at Danielle knowingly.

Danielle smiled and lifted her brow. “Point taken.”

“You know, maybe we should have her—” Claire’s knees buckled beneath her, eyes wide as she barely caught herself on the burlap siding of the cubicle. Danielle rushed to her side, carefully lifting the feigning party to stand.

“Claire,” she said sternly, green eyes fastened on her pupil. “Go see a doctor.”

Claire knew she was right. In the catch-up she’d been playing for since the previous saga of her life, sleep had become a thing of the past. When she wasn’t at work, she was with Bruce; when Bruce was “working,” Claire was searching for stories and editing. She lent her fatigue to exhaustion, but after several days of irritable bowels and terrible bouts of sweat, Claire knew a cold was at play.

“I’ll make an appointment for tomorrow morning,” she said, visibly shaken from her fall. “Someone has to be at the courthouse this afternoon to meet with Commissioner Gordon, and Reed is on something else.”

“I can send Karen,” Danielle suggested. “She’s covered crime before.”

“No, this is too big a story. I’ll go myself.”

Danielle was silent a moment, her eyes probing Claire’s face. It was like she was searching Claire’s soul, mining way the misery and exhaustion. After a moment she nodded.

“Alright, West, go, but don’t worry about pushing the deadline. We have the edge over the Tribune, Gordon tells me, so write it up after your appointment in the morning, but only if you’re feeling well,” she jabbed a finger in Claire’s direction. “I don’t want to see you in this office tomorrow.”

“As if you have a choice,” Claire scoffed. “I get paid to be here.”

“Don’t test me, Claire.”

Claire narrowed her eyes.

Always one for challenge, Danielle straightened her blazer and swept her platinum hair over her shoulder. Her eyes were begging Claire to understand.

 _She’ll have to call Bruce,_ she realized.

“Understood,” Claire said and turned back to her desk. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at her boss with gratitude.

***

“Claire West, what an honor,” Commissioner Gordon greeted. His eyes crinkled at the ends when he smiled. His chestnut hair was peppered with grey, and his modest mustache was much the same.

Claire shook his hand and gasped when he maneuvered her into a hug. She blushed and pulled away, mouth drawn into a cheesy smile.

“You’re friendlier in person thanx your e-mails,” she jibbed and laughed at his flustered exhale.

“I usually respond on the damn phone. I keep it short – I can’t always find the buttons.” He wiggled his fingers in explanation.

Gordon gestured Claire to take the seat across from his desk.

For the next hour the pair engaged in a lively interview on the new crime initiative in Gotham. Longer sentences for lesser crimes, Gordon said, was the Mayor’s idea for cleansing the streets.

“If Batman can pick them up, the least we can do is keep them caged,” he said, eyes veering to stare out his window.

The sun was beginning to dim; reds and pinks laid in pastel ribbons along the office’s wood floors.

“And you’ve met no push back from the local legislature?” Claire asked.

Gordon chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Claire nodded and smiled, following the Commissioner’s eyes to the window.

“You’re meeting him tonight.”

Gordon’s eyes trickled to Claire’s, then to the tape recorder laying like a knife on the table between them.

Claire reached forward to switch the tape off, stow it in the pocket of her blazer.

“He thinks I accommodate him too much,” he said. “I can tell it annoys him.”

Claire couldn’t contain the grin that leaped across her face.

“Most things do,” she admitted.

“He told me you’re usually more talkative. You’re being ambiguous.”

“I’m just wearing my reporter’s hat. It’s part of the job.”

Gordon smiled. “Now that we’re off the record, I reckon you can take it off.”

And so she did, and the two carried on another lengthy conversion. When the sun had nearly sunk into the bracken Gotham shoreline, the two stood to leave.

As they neared the door, the Mayor poked his head into Gordon’s office. When he saw Claire his eyes narrowed, ever skeptical of her writing.

“Miss West,” he said politely, though his pinched lips told a different story.

“Mayor Brown, I was just on my way out.”

Gordon fixed Claire with a knowing look and ushered her to the door. The three exchanged a few words, and the Mayor finally smiled, content with Claire’s in-person charm.

“Make sure you get some sleep before you write that,” he said. “Really make Gotham shine.”

The Commissioner chuckled.

“No politics tonight, Will,” he said.

“Of course,” Claire said with a smile. “Thanks for having me, gentlemen.”

She strode away from the office, her heels clinking down the sleepy hall of the courthouse. The lights were low, and Claire could hear the Mayor and Gordon chat animatedly behind her. She tried to listen but was overwhelmed by a sudden buzzing in her ears. It was boisterous, tin-like and it permeated her thought process. She lifted a hand to a wall to brace herself against the deafening noise. She grit her teeth against it, raised a shaky hand to ward away the incessant throbbing of her forehead.

Flurries of black nagged at the edge of her vision, and before Claire could think to address the frantic voices that called out behind her, her world was consumed by darkness.

***

When Claire woke, she saw Wally’s head laying on her pillow, vibrant threads of red trickling into Claire’s nose. She sputtered against him and lifted a hand to shove him away. Only her hand was weighed by something, and each movement invited an unwelcome prickle.  

Her eyes fastened on the arm, then to the wires attached to it. They led in translucent paths up her arm to dangling bags of clear fluid. Claire groaned.

_I should’ve gone to the damn doctor yesterday._

Wally stirred and smiled sleepily at his sister. He lifted from the pillow and launched into a languid stretch, each of his joints heaving a loud _pop!_

“God, that’s awful,” she croaked.

“Just keeping virile so I can be the fastest man alive, _and_ the best brother alive.”

Claire groaned.

“What am I in for?”

Wally smiled and massaged Claire’s forearm.

“You passed out in the courthouse. The Mayor called me from your phone, and I came as soon as I could. Doc should be in soon.”

“Does Bruce know?” She asked, wincing against the possible combination of his reactions.

“Nah, you’ve only been out a few hours. He’s working.” Wally pointed to the black abyss outside the hospital window.

“Thank God.” She breathed a sigh of relief.

A fist knocked against the hospital room door and a woman ambled in. She was easily in her 50s, with silver strands trickling through her ebony curls. She smiled brilliantly at Claire, teeth tinged yellow from the coffee she’d undoubtedly consumed before her shift. She greeted Claire and scribbled down her vitals.

“Typically, humans should sleep,” the doctor mused. “And eat, lest they wind up in the situation you’re in now.”

Wally fixed Claire with a scathing stare.

“It’s been a few months, catching up at work,” Claire defended. “We’re low on staff because of the company takeover, and the new hires are inexperienced—”

“Miss West, please. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. You’re exhausted and dehydrated, and I’d prefer to keep you overnight. I’d like to do another set of labs in the morning, and if everything checks out, you should be cleared to go. Are you taking any medications currently?”

“No, just birth control,” Claire said. “I just finished the month, so this whole situation is probably explained by that. Being a female is great, right?”

Wally’s cheeks filled with crimson and the doctor merely fixed Claire with a sympathetic smile.

“And when did you finish your supply?”

“Three days ago.”

“And does your period usually shows three days after you finish your dosage?”

Claire crinkled her brow. Truthfully, she never kept track of her period. Having started birth control, at Bruce’s behest, Claire never tracked the pattern. She chose to trust the medicine.

“What I’m trying to say, Miss West, is that your labs came back. They aren’t abnormal, given your state and malnourishment, but there is something you should be aware of.” Her eyes flickered to Wally.

“He’s my brother, I’m sure he can hear whatever it is. Just tell me that I can still leave here tomorrow.”

“Right then,” the doctor said with a smile. “Miss West, I’ve arranged for the OBGYN to stop by in the morning—”

“Oh shit, I don’t have an STD, do I? I’ll kill him, I’ll fucking kill him—”

“No, no, no – You’re pregnant, Miss West.”

Wally began bouncing at Claire’s side.

“I’m going to be an uncle! Uncle Wally – should I get one of those relative shirts with the cool names? Do you have those in the gift shop?”

There was a sudden pounding in her head, and the machines behind Claire began to whirl. A wave of fear pierced Claire’s heart, and sent it hammering like the wings of a hummingbird.

A nurse scurried in behind the doctor to the monitors chastise the monitors. An arm reached down to reassuringly pat her shoulder.

“Miss West,” the doctor’s voice was gentle. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you distress. When the OBGYN visits tomorrow, you can discuss your options. For now, I need you to calm down and rest.”

“I can’t rest knowing that there’s life inside me. I knew birth control wasn’t enough – I’m going to kill him. He’s going to die, I can’t – I can’t fathom that – he and I can’t – we never – “

“Chink,” Wally’s voice sounded like a child’s – full of trepidation, worry.

The nurse managed to slip something in Claire’s medicine that calmed her nerves, transformed her arms to gelatin.

Claire turned her nose into her pillow and rallied a desperate sob. Before she began to drift, she called out to Wally.

“You can’t tell him – you can’t tell him—”

_It was just a stomach flu, it was just a stomach flu._

Wally deflated at her side and held her hand as she drifted into her dreams, far away from the crisis at hand.

“I won’t, Chink. I’m right here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Wally had stalked off to get food when Claire woke next. Her room was dark, still swathed in darkness. There was a rustling near the window, and Claire’s blurry vision couldn’t discern the image.

It was silent for an immeasurable amount of moments until she heard the creak of the chair beside her. Without bearing a glance, Claire already knew who it was.

“Did Wally call you?”

There was a metallic whirl, the sound of his hood detracting; the click of the voice enhancer at his belt. Claire had come to recognize the sound.

“Gordon,” Bruce rumbled. A gloved hand reached out to fondle her chin, turn her face toward him. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Or eating, or drinking,” Claire laughed sheepishly. “I’m a doctor’s worst nightmare.”

“Hm.” He roved a finger along her cheek. “And what did the doctor say?”

“Oh, just a stomach flu. I’ll be home in the morning.” She was thankful that Bruce was unable to discern her in the bracken light of the room. “Probably from running like a chicken with my head cut off since Wayne Industries’ take over. That’s you, in case you forgot.”

“Can you bring yourself to forgive me?” He mused, pressed a cool kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll endeavor my best, but only if you find me something besides hospital food.”

“Your servant.” And with that he stood, but not before pressing a departing kiss to her lips. Claire hung on a moment or two before releasing him. She could trace the outline of a smile on his lips. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Claire watched as he fluttered back into the night unseen. She tried to contain the sobs that wracked in her chest. She turned her head into the pillow and closed her eyes, willing herself to forget the world.

***

The OBGYN called out the next morning, and Claire was discharged on the promise that she’d arrive for her appointment the following week. Wally hesitantly returned to Central City and her life resumed as normally as it could, but Claire began slowly detaching herself from Bruce. She stayed over infrequently and avoided the discussion of moving in altogether. She knew she’d never be able to be with him– not after she… Could she? Could she do what her mind refused to fathom?

The next week, Claire left work. The ride home was agonized by the sting of something she forgot. When she entered her apartment and pulled out her phone, she cursed.

_2 missed calls: OBGYN._

It was too late now to call, so she’d reschedule for the morning.

She dialed Danielle and left her a voicemail saying she’d be late because of a doctor’s appointment and flicked on the lights to her apartment.

When she looked up she was met with the unwavering scrutiny of crisp blue eyes. They settled on her as though they would prey – hungry, expectant, impatient. She saw the ships shatter against the rocklike formation of his lips – hard, straight.

Summoning her will, Claire steeled her shoulders and crossed her arms.

“You could’ve called.”

Bruce’s ebony brows lifted slightly.

“You don’t answer my calls.”

“Some of us have actual jobs, you know. I don’t get to sit with Fox all day and screw around with fancy bat toys. Those little companies you buy – _my_ little company – is what fuels your company with the money to buy other companies, so you can continue to play with your toys.”

His lip twitched.

“I’m tired,” Claire said after a few moments of stifling silence. “Is there something you needed? Or can I sleep?”

Bruce rose from the chair he’d been sitting in and stalked closer, each cross of his legs burdened with purpose. He stopped in front of her, eyes hard.

“I received a call from the hospital today,” he said. “You and Wally weren’t answering your phones.”

“I was working, and Wally was in the lab all day, then worked a shift in your space-ship-playhouse-thing. I don’t see why I have to justify that to you.”

In his defense, she thought, he hadn’t asked her to.

Bruce cleared his throat.

“It was a Dr. Cleveland. She said you missed your appointment.”

“That was awfully kind of her,” Claire replied testily. “It was just a follow up for my stomach flu.”

A vein throbbed on Bruce’s forehead.

“She’s an OBGYN, Clarisse.”

Claire fought the urge to cringe and ran a hand tersely over her collarbone.

“Your full name is Bruce, so that’s not fair.”

Bruce sputtered, a rare sight for Claire, and reached out to clasp her hands and draw her near. She expected his touch to wound, to bruise. He was gentle, if not abrupt.

“What aren’t you telling me, Claire? Why are you avoiding me?” His eyes sought hers, the slightest flavor of desperation on his lips.

Claire fought the itchiness in her throat and met Bruce’s gaze squarely. She clenched her jaw, straightened her back.

“If I tell you, will you leave me?”

Bruce’s mouth bobbled uncertainly. His brows creased.

He began to speak but Claire cut him off.

“If I tell you, you have to leave. You can leave me completely, or you can just leave here. I don’t care, but you have to leave because I can’t handle this tonight.” _Or any night,_ she added silently.

“I won’t leave you,” Bruce said, voice wrought with conviction. “Are you in trouble, Claire? Is something medically wrong?”

“No, No – I just – I need you to swear you’ll leave after I tell you. Leave my apartment, even if it’s just for tonight, please. I just need you to leave,” her voice was small, weak. Her eyes sought his desperately.

“If that’s what you want.”

She took a shaky breath, nodded.

“Bruce, I’m pregnant.”

She couldn’t bear to look at his expression, so she looked to the wall.

“I’m rescheduling my appointment for tomorrow. We’re going to discuss options.”

The weight of his hands on hers disappeared, and when Claire swung her head to face him she was greeted with still air.

Her eyes fastened on the curtains billowing through the open window.

Shew threw her belongings on the floor and shuffled to her room, small waterfalls streaming down her cheeks.

***

From the control room Bruce toiled at a computer, distractedly punching commands into a computer. His eyes scratched along his unseeingly. The screen showing the prison cells moved, and he saw the slightest switch of his captive’s foot.

He pressed a gadget on his keyboard, a summons to the league.

It was time.


	35. For Me

 

J’onn eased himself into the cell with practiced caution. Batman shuffled in behind him, ever an ominous figure in black. Superman, Wonderwoman, Flash and Green Arrow surveyed behind the glass barrier of the cell, listening diligently through the speaker.

The Flash caressed the back of his neck, shook his head.

“I just don’t know what he thinks he’ll get outta this,” he said.

The Green Arrow shifted his eyes to observe the younger league member, a small smile quirking his lips.

“A motive. He thinks Ra’s is moving in on Gotham again, possibly the country.”

“We just have to let him get it out of his system,” Superman interjected. His mouth was fixed in a solemn smile. “Who knows, maybe she can answer some questions. I trust him.”

Arrow grunted in response. Wally crossed his arms, unconvinced.

J’onn dropped onto the cot, the covers stirring under his weight. His corded, green arms lifted and gestured to the stoic woman beneath him.

“I am going to touch you,” He said, voice oddly serene. “The pain will be temporary.”

The figure sighed and jostled the cuffs at her wrists.

“They stay on,” Batman said. He observed the woman, his face as still as a statue.

J’onn’s hands caressed either side of the prisoner’s head. He felt the fabric of her hood stir beneath his grasp. At the first touch of skin, his brow wrinkled.

“What is it, J’onn?” Diana asked through the glass. She reached for the lasso at her hip.

“This presence – it is familiar,” he said, as though an afterthought. “I’ve touched this mind before.”

Superman and Batman exchanged a glance.

“I need to lift this barrier, it is so strong, I feel…” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “There is a glamour over her mind – an enchantment. I can just touch it… “

“Can you get past it?” Batman demanded, eyebrows furrowed under his cowl.

The woman’s cuffed wrists reached to clasp J’onn’s forearms. He body heaved, but she remained silent. Her legs bent at agonizing angles, the only evidence of pain. She jerked back from his grasp and held out a quavering hand.

J’onn straightened.

“She requires a moment.”

“She’s under interrogation,” Batman said. “She’s doesn’t get a moment.”

The prisoner leaned forward and gently touched her head. In slow, painful movements she began to eradicate the intricate wrapping about her head. J’onn leaned forward to assist, large hands relieving her of the burden.

Wally watched the woman on the cot with a sudden fascination. His body bent forward.

His eyes widened at the familiar smattering of red that peering through the prisoner’s veil.

“I want in there,” he demanded.

Superman shook his head, uneased himself.

“Not until Batman gives his consent.”

“J’ONN!” Wally threw himself against the tempered glass and beat his fists against it. “J’ONN, LET ME IN!”

The final stitching of the veil fell apart in the Martian’s hand. The wife of the demon head stirred uncomfortably in its absence, her green eyes trickling to the floor. Her face was round but hallowed, likely from the rigor of training in the mountains. Freckles danced along her cheeks, and red tresses laid around her face in full, elegant coils. She was slim, and grim, and the light that had once danced in her eyes was thoroughly doused.

The watchful bodies in the watchtower drew in a collective breath.

“She is dead,” Diana whispered. Her voice was bitter.

“She doesn’t look very dead to me,” Arrow mused. His mouth furrowed in awe, though his eyes balanced on Bruce.

The Dark Knight lifted a hand to his throat to withdraw his cowl. It collapsed with a metallic whirl, and he stepped toward the cot.

J’onn drew a hand to the man’s shoulder, halted him where he stood.

“She cannot speak. He has her mind in – I cannot undo what he has done. A sorcerer perhaps – “

Wally’s rattling against the glass stilled. He pressed his forehead against it.

Claire’s face drew to her brother’s – so distraught against the glass – and her eyes flickered. She rattled her chains in an attempt to free herself. Her eyes jumped between the J’onn and Bruce, eyebrows furrowed.

“She needs to – “ J’onn began, but Bruce pushed past him. He lifted a hand to caress the underside of Claire’s jaw.

  
“Claire?” his voice was soft, hesitant as a child’s. His ebony brows were furrowed at his nose.

Her eyes closed before she turned away to face Wally’s. Her wide eyes were desperate.

For a moment, the watchtower paused. The rotation ceased, the whirls and creaks of superhero headquarters paused. Wally’s hot breath pooled against the cell’s glass, and tears froze as they trickled down his cheeks.

For a moment, Bruce’s fingertips fondled the underside of Claire’s throat. The next, each digit began to wrap around her pale, delicate skin. He flexed his fist and lifted her body to scale against the wall. He spoke through his teeth, his rage flaring in blue, hot flames.

“Whoever you are, you aren’t her,” he growled. “What game is Ra’s playing?”

He shook the life that dangled between his hands.

“Tell me – NOW!”

Claire’s shackled hands and feet began to lash out, and a wave of chaos flooded into the room.

***

Claire marched up to the counter with conviction. She laid her elbows on the cold marble, warped her lips into a semblance of a smile.

“I have an 9:00 with Cleveland – I called this morning.”

The receptionist beamed at her and nodded.

“Name?”

“Claire – Claire West.”

Fingers hurried against a keyboard. The receptionists’ brows furrowed.

“I see – you scheduled this morning, but your husband called to cancel. He said you weren’t feeling well.”

“I’m not married,” Claire’s lips drew up tightly.

The receptionist steepled her fingers and bit her lips, eyes dashing uncertainly to her computer screen.

“The young man who called seemed to think you were. A Bruce Wayne?”

Claire’s cheeks fumed with red.

“Regardless, I’d like to reschedule for today. I took off this morning so I—”

“I’m afraid we filled the spot, Miss West. I can fit you in on –”

Claire’s heels left dust as she trailed from the doctor’s office and hailed a cab. When she pulled into Wayne Industries she nearly pummeled the armed security that barred her entrance from Bruce’s office.

Joyce hurried to Claire’s side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“He’s in Metropolis, and I’ve been explicitly instructed to send you home.” Her tone rang with pity – a sentiment that Claire loathed.

“And what home did he specify exactly? His? Or mine? You can tell him that if he ever meddles with my doctor’s appointments again I’ll fucking kill him.”

Joyce’s eyes darted to the guards stirring at Claire’s flanks.

“Claire, I know you’re upset –”

Claire snorted and made quick work of discarding her heels. In a movement so hurried one may have mistaken her for Wally, she ran for the elevator and punched a code in the wall. She blew a kiss to security as the doors shuttered closed. Her eyes watched the numbers above as they dwindled, sinking further and further underground. When her destination was reached, the doors opened.

An amused Lucius stood before her. His eyes sparkled in the flourescents of the storage pad.

He looked down at his watch with an ironic smile.

“You’re late.”

Claire merely narrowed her eyes, containing the smile that threatened to thaw her steely resolve.

“He’s really not here?”

Fox shook his head.

“Gone early this morning. He said you’d be by.”

Her shoulders sagged in silent defeat, and she focused on the wall behind Lucius, desperate to ward off tears.

“I didn’t think he’d actually leave,” she said.

The man smiled, brown skin scrunching at the corner of his eyes.

“He’ll be back by tonight. Bruce just needs to clear his head, take some time. He was overdue for a business trip anyways.”

Claire nodded and pressed the button for the elevator. She offered Fox a solemn smile.

“I don’t want him cancelling my doctor appointments or spontaneously showing up at my place. If he wants to talk, he speaks to be directly – I don’t play games.”

“Didn’t think you did.” He winked.

***

When she laid her head to rest that night, she was plagued by nightmares. Apparitions of the unknown, the uncertain. She couldn’t raise a human; she could barely raise herself out of bed in the morning. Not to mention Bruce who, despite having children of his own, was mostly irresponsible. He didn’t know the first thing about parenting, about raising a child.

Roused by bitter visions, she sat up on her bed. Her fingers kneaded into soft, familiar sheets. Through her sleep-muddled eyes she saw plush curtains; a massive four-poster bed.

 _So much for not visiting unannounced,_ she fumed.  _And kidnapping me._

She saw a silhouette perched on the edge of the bed. Upon hearing her stir, it rose. Large, calloused fingers encased hers, set somethings velvety in her hand.

 “Bruce?”

Warm lips brushed her temple in response. She inhaled his sultry scent – night, and rain and cedar.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said.

“Me neither.”

Entranced, she barely registered Bruce’s hands guiding hers to open the package in her hand.

“Spend the rest of your life with me,” his lips whispered against her ear.

Her hands shook as she observed the diamond that glittered, even in the ebony caress of night. She touched the ring once, twice. A smile curved her lips and she nestled into his shoulder.

 She lifted the ring from the box, twirled it in her fingers. The moonlight prompted the ring to sparkle and glisten.

Which allowed her to see how the ring shined as she flung it out the open balcony doors.


	36. Off the Ground

Bruce watched after the ring with silent appreciation. A Cheshire grin broke across his face like the sun, illuminating the dark room.

“You’re right, the diamond was too much,” he said sardonically.

Claire’s eyes were wide as the fine china plates in Bruce’s cabinets. The whites glowed in her astonishment. She sputtered, put a hand to her collarbone to rub it feverishly.

 “I’m pregnant – we are facing a life changing issue, THE life changing issue – and your solution is marriage?” She leaped from the bed and erratically gestured to the balcony. “Is that what you were doing in Metropolis – buying a ring? Are you—you—I’m knocked up so you buy a ring? Is this the nineteenth century?!”

“I’ve been planning to ask for your hand for months,” he said smoothly.  

“You—what?” Claire pressed a fretful hand to her crinkled forehead.

“I want a family with you, Claire. Dick admires you, Damian’s warmed up since you arrived – and you’re the love of my life.” His eyes found hers through the darkness, shimmering and blue. “I want to raise a child with you.”

“I’m sorry, is an engagement supposed to suddenly make having a child feasible? Bruce,” she said seriously, exasperation threading her voice like poison. “We can’t be parents.”

“You’d be an excellent mother. You’re nurturing—”

“Like a lion.”

“Intelligent –”

“2.5 GPA.”

“Claire, be serious.”

“I’m the only one who is!” She threw her hands to the air in exasperation. “You and I – we can’t handle the pressure as parents. Just look at us! You have too much on your plate with the League and Gotham and Wayne Enterprises – it just can’t work Bruce.”

Bruce edged up to the end of the bed where Claire flailed and sought both of her hands, drew her to him slowly, enticingly. “Claire,” he began.

Claire shut her were and shook her head to the side in a sort of bobble.

“Nope – sex appeal isn’t working this time. It’s how we got in this position in the first place. All pants stay on.”

A deep, raspy rumble of laughter flowed from Bruce’s chest. He squeezed her hands reassuringly. When she opened her eyes, she found his own gleaming back at her.

“You’re scared,” he said, as though it were the plainest fact in the world. The sky is blue, the grass is green, Jesus is the savior – Claire is scared.

“Of course I am,” she squeaked. “This all so new and I… “ She shook her head. “How can I care for someone other than myself?”

“You care for Wally and Damian. Alfred.”

She rolled her eyes.

“That’s different,” she flinched at how petulant she sounded.

“It’s not. You care for Wally as though he were your own son – I know you transfer money in his account, check that he attends his doctor’s appointments. You’d care for our son in the same manner, I know.”

Claire looked off into the distance beside Claire’s head as though it held the world’s greatest solution. She pursed her lips thoughtfully before she said, “It could be a girl, you know.”

Bruce inclined his head to Claire’s stomach and smiled. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to the fabric-covered skin. His eyes flickered up to meets hers. Claire wiped at her face bitterly and tried to ignore the somersaults of joy that erupted in her stomach.

_A daughter. I could have a daughter._

He grinned, satisfied at having piqued her undivided attention.

“I don’t think Alfred could handle a house with two women.”

Claire’s fingers threaded in Bruce’s hair, each strand’s silky-soft smoothness undulating beneath her fingers. She narrowed her eyes as she looked upon him, vaguely suspicious.

“It’d be refreshing for him, I think,” she said. “We still haven’t discussed this. Having a child isn’t flattering to a bachelor’s lifestyle.”

“I haven’t been a bachelor for quite some time.” He grinned.

Claire’s heart was taken aback. She had to shake herself before she continued.

“And what happens if you get bored with a family, marriage? Do I just have to move aside for the new girl? Settle for a Benz and a lot in upper Gotham?”

“Claire, I could never bore of you,” he grumbled, somewhat wistfully. “Every moment, with or without you, is an adventure. Trust me when I say boredom isn’t an issue.” For the shortest moment, Bruce looked older, wiser, as though his age had all but caught up with him.

Building on that weakness, Claire began to pull away. “You’re 35, Bruce, what happens when you start becoming weaker, unable to defend Gotham, your home?” She gestured around the room flippantly. “You can’t expect Dick and Damian to respond to your every call – they need lives, families, homes. They can’t be confined to Gotham.” For Damian, particularly, Claire knew staying domicile would be a feat.

“The fact is, Bruce, you’ve made enemies,” Claire continued. “And you won’t always be able to protect me, or a new child. It’s too big a risk to take, even for you.”

“No harm will ever befall our family, Claire,” he vowed, ebony brows tucked together with determination. “I won’t allow it.”

Claire shook her head.

“You can’t be certain, Bruce.”

“Life is unpredictable,” He agreed. “Wayne Manor is fortified for any intrusions. It’s withstood Thanagarians and terrorists. Our child would be safe here for as long as he-- ” He raised his eyebrows at Claire’s huff. “ – or she, chooses to stay here. You’re right, fight will be difficult, but the Justice League will continue to expand. You have nothing to worry about.”

“And when you die?” Claire’s eyes drilled into his like knives – sharp and penetrating. “Our _daughter_ won’t have a father. I’ll be… “ Her lips began to tremble. Her eyes softened, and suddenly every concern and fear she’d ever conquered shone through those grassy green portals.

_Alone. Alone, again._

“I can’t,” She tried to formulate the words over the tightness in her throat. She was dreadfully overwhelmed, like a farmer gazing at a tornado mere inches from his finely growth stock: everything she’d ever built, ever earned, was in danger of crumbling.

“I don’t know if I could ever live without you,” she finally said. “I could breathe, and work, but I couldn’t watch our child grow up without you.”

Bruce broke his sardonically stoic character and swathed her face with his palms. He brought his forehead to hers and drifted his lips along her nose.

“If you’re asking for guarantees, I can’t give you any,” he said shamelessly. “If you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

She breathed against him and her eyes flickered to the balcony doors left ajar.

“I guess I’ll be needing a new ring, then.”

***

Wally had discarded his superhero digs and perched on the edge of his sister’s mattress. The pair merely stared at one another, the Flash for once at a loss of words. He eventually wrapped a beefy arm around her and drew her close. She stiffened, at first. Her hands crumpled to fists and her lips hardened. She maneuvered her head to cradle against his chest and her body began to rattle with despondent sobs.

Arrow watched the scene from a screen in the League conference room. Wonder Woman, Superman and Batman were arguing with ease, each boom louder than the next

“Bruce, you can’t attack a League prisoner,” Superman reasoned, his patience dwindled. “It makes us no better than some street criminal.”

“I saw her die, I was there.” He clenched his jaw at the violent memory. “It’s not her.”

“It is not the first time we’ve seen one rise from the dead,” Wonder Woman said. Her face was cast in a grim shadow, lips pent into a sneer.

J’onn, who loomed in the corner, was something of a referee. Through the previous quarrels he intervened quietly. It had been some time, however, since he’d spoken. His voice was burdened with fretful knowledge, and his black eyes shone with sympathy.

“She never died. Ra’s fixed her with a curse to weaken her until he found her state sufficient enough to serve his needs. The torture she endured in sickness,” J’onn inclined his head in disgust. “is nothing compared to Ra’s cultivation of her spirit.”

“I can only imagine,” Arrow muttered, eyes rapt on the sobbing woman.

“Then he has truly wed her.” Wonder Woman’s words possessed a certain gravity.

“Diana,” Superman chastised, eyes wide.

“Yes,” J’onn droned. “He crafted her to be used as a weapon in his domination of Gotham. Claire knows there is a greater plan, but she has not been privy to such conversations. She is typically kept under the watch of Talia Al Ghoul.”

“She holds a grudge.” Batman said plainly.

“A rather large one, yes,” J’onn said. “Claire suffers for it.”

“And Ra’s,” Bruce pried, his voice leaden with something akin to sorrow. “What are his plans for her?”

“Claire’s mind spoke something of a prophecy she was to fulfill. He has trained her ruthlessly, a crash course compared to your training, but a lifetime of knowledge nonetheless. Gotham was her first opportunity to leave the mountains. She did not expect to be caught so soon.”

“Why did she not confront Batman sooner? Or someone in the League?” Wonder Woman demanded. “What does he hold against her?”

Arrow, Superman, J’onn and Batman all exchanged a glance.

 “It would be best to bring him here,” Superman said knowingly.

“I didn’t want to expose him to this so soon,” Bruce said irritably. “I’ll send word to Damian.”

“I’ll do it,” Arrow piped from his corner. “I’m just watching a camera, anyways. Might as well be useful.”

“There may be an alternative solution,” J’onn said sagely. All heads in the room swiveled to face him. “Even here, young Parker would be prone to kidnapping. While we must trust our members, anyone is susceptible to persuasion and spells. I propose we call on Dr. Fate and his wife Inza. Inza has child-rearing experience and Parker would be safe from harm in another dimension.”

“It’s a possibility,” Superman reasoned. “Fate has become quite the League asset.”

“I don’t like not knowing where he is,” Batman argued. “He could take him anywhere.”

“Right now, anywhere is better than here,” Arrow said. “Run it by Claire, see what she thinks. She’s got a better idea of Ra’s plan than we do.”

“She is his mother,” J’onn agreed. “While he’s here, he may be able to break whatever spell plagues Claire’s mind.”

“Fine,” Batman grumbled. “Clark, call Fate. If he agrees, call Robin and Nightwing.”

“And the wife of the Demon Head?” Wonder Woman inquired, her brazen features skeptical.

“I’ll deal with her now,” he said and pierced the Amazonian with a meaningful look. “Alone.”

“Do you think that wise?” She said indignantly. “She could be brainwashed, even J’onn can’t unearth a truth rooted in fiction.”

Batman turned to J’onn. The room could practically see the eyebrow lift under his cowl.

“The only hinderance I see is the spell that renders her silent.”

Batman nodded and swept out the conference room doors.

***

 

It had to be the millionth time it caught on a blanket or thread of clothing. Each time it did, she roared and blundered her feet against the ground. It was her dance, an expression of the unyielding frustration of the expensive rock that clung to her finger like glue.

Not for the first time, she threw a fit in front of her ever-dubious wedding planner. The woman watched Claire over the rim of her of glasses, shook her head.

“The final order for flowers,” the woman said, patience withering, “has to be made now. If we don’t make it now, we won’t have them by Wednesday.”

Claire shook her hand and sighed. “Chrysanthemums and gardenias are what we agreed on – just send it in.”

“And the final count for seating,” the woman continued. “I have 700 chairs for the ceremony –”

“Who knows _700 people_?” Claire gawked.

The wedding planner glanced fleetingly at her notes.

“Mr. Wayne’s receptionist sent over the numbers yesterday. I assumed you knew?”

Claire’s eyes were wide and unseeing. She waved a hand in dismissal and lowered herself onto one of the plush couches in Bruce’s sitting room. _Her_ sitting room, she chided herself.

 “The numbers Miss Joyce sent over will be fine,” Alfred soothing voice lulled beside Claire. He lowered a silver tray on the oak table across from the couch. He bent stiffly before the wedding planner.

The wedding planner smiled tartly, lips puckered in finality.

“I’ll see you out,” Alfred said and ushered the woman away. Claire blew out a sigh and allowed her head to bounce against the back of the couch.

The empty cushion beside her buckled under new weight. She turned her head against the couch back to glimpse Damian, his green eyes shining with mirth.

He reached forward to fetch one of the tiny porcelain cups on the silver tray. He lifted it to his lips, sipped the steaming tea inside.

After several moments of silence, he lifted a brow. The gesture was so eerily similar to his father that Claire had to blink.

“I didn’t think you’d indulge father so,” he said, distinguished and tactful as ever.

“He felt it was important,” she moaned, lifted her hands to smother her face. “I just want the whole ordeal to be done and over with.” She hadn’t been engaged for more than five days and her burgeoning wedding was only days away.

Her stomach gave a loud yawn.

Damian handed Claire a cookie from the tray. Claire nodded to him gratefully and devoured it with relish, head still suspended against the sofa.

“Though father’s usual extravagance is a rouse, I do think he’s enjoying this.” He narrowed his eyes at Claire’s ironic laugh. “What?”

“He’s enjoying it because it annoys me,” Claire explained. “Otherwise, he’d hire someone to handle everything. Colors, logistics, numbers – the planner would have to do it all herself. Instead, he forces me to be the middleman.”

Damian seemed to chew on that thought before he spoke, lips quirked in a hint of a smile.

“Given the compulsion of it all, I rather thought he’d shove it off on a planner, too. He really _is_ torturing you.”

Claire blew air through her lips and closed her eyes.

“Not to worry, Miss West,” Alfred said. He stood across from the couch, poured Claire a cup of tea. “You’ve been punished sufficiently and I’ve arranged that all matters be addressed directly to Master Bruce from now on.”

She chuckled and leaped forward to retrieve her tea. She offered him a thank you, muffled by her exuberant laughter.

Alfred winked and resumed his chores, leaving Damian and Claire to chatter idly. Bruce’s prodigy paused abruptly in conversation to meet Claire’s eyes squarely. The intensity of the gesture prompted Claire’s suspicion.

“Is something on my face?” She said.

“Of course not,” he said poshly. “I just wondered… have you thought of any names yet?” His eyes flickered to Claire’s stomach.

Though blissfully flat, Claire knew it wouldn’t be long before she would hobble from room to room. She agreed to expedite the wedding for that very reason – so she could enjoy wedding pictures and a honeymoon without a burgeoning stomach and pestering from the press.

“Bruce discussed recycling his parents’ names. Martha, if it’s a girl. Thomas, if it’s a boy.”

Damian lifted a brow.

Claire snorted.

“My thoughts exactly. Middle names, sure, but  refuse to condemn my daughter to a name like _Martha.”_ She allowed her body to rochet with shivers.

“Have you any ideas?,” he asked.

“I haven’t found any female names that have spoken to me yet. For a boy, I like the name ‘Parker.’ It modern, but simple. Neither nerd nor frat guy. It’s the perfect balance of masculinity.”

“Parker,” he tasted the word. Smiled in agreement.

Claire grinned. “Damian and Parker Wayne – children of the night, sons of the illustrious Bruce Wayne.”

A brief shadow passed over Damian’s face. It was fleeting, but unmistakable. Claire’s grin faded and her brows pulled toward her nose.

“Not to break out the timeless sibling lecture, but you’ll still be—”

“His first son, yes, yes, I know,” Damian snapped impatiently. “It’s not that. I just question father’s reaction. The chasm between Dick and I is noticeable.”

Claire rearranged herself to face Damian fully. Leg crossed under her bottom, she summoned reassurance that only Claire West could provide.

“Bruce is an ass to you because he _is_ you. Or, you are him – vice versa, back and forth – you get the point. Dick is too… pure, and funny and charming. Dick is the more cultured side of Bruce Wayne, and he’ll always be that little boy Bruce saved. You, on the other hand, _are Bruce._ Your hair, your brilliance, the weird eyebrow-lifting-thing– you are a Wayne. Throw in your mother and a less-than-nuturing beginning, he feels he has a responsibility to groom you. When Dick grows bored of saving Gotham – and Bruce knows he will –you’ll be the next in line. It’s who you are – it’s who _he is.”_

“And,” she continued with a wilting sigh. “That is an advantage you’ll always have over Parker, or Martha – you are Gotham’s sole inheritor, and Bruce will always see you that way. He… respects you as his equal and he knows – deep, deep inside himself --- that you’ll do things he never could. I just hope that you don’t lose sight of who you are, and find blindly in love with Gotham. See the world before you dig in your roots, make mistakes. Don’t… trap yourself here.”

“What if the new heir should choose the crusade as well?”

Claire shook her head. “Bruce won’t allow it.”

Damian leaned forward, ears piqued. “Did father say that?

“Not plainly, no,” she said. “I just have a feeling.”

The pair looked up to the newest presence in the room. An unusually flustered Bruce Wayne loomed in the doorway, ever dapped in grey slacks and a white oxford, a pastel vest covering the vast canvas of his chest. He lifted perplexed blue eyes in Claire direction and held up his phone. He raised a dark eyebrow.

“Would someone like to explain why I’m suddenly planning a wedding?”


End file.
